


The Grad Student

by ackermom



Series: The Grad Student [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Graduate School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, Erotica, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Masturbation, Miscommunication, Oral Sex, Romantic Comedy, Sexting, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2020-12-31 18:21:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21150140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ackermom/pseuds/ackermom
Summary: Opening a message surely not intended for him, the grad student begins spiraling into a gay panic over his best friend.





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> "stand tall and look mindful, even though you're addicted to porn." - [modern philosopher chris fleming](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eW3UGqkyKOk)
> 
> the creative writing MFA au we deserve. summary is à la [lego grad student](https://twitter.com/legogradstudent?lang=en).

Bertholdt has been standing in front of the pantry for five minutes before he finally makes up his mind. Fuck decaf, he decides, reaching for the regular coffee. He's already gay and depressed. How much more harm can caffeine do?

He does take into consideration the fact that it's almost ten p.m., that he has a deadline in two hours, and that he might die in a public spectacle if he doesn't get enough sound sleep to be functionally literate for teaching Hamlet tomorrow morning. But then again, he is deeply in debt. Death would not be the worst thing to happen to him. 

The coffee machine spits, sputters, and begins to brew. Bertholdt rubs his eyes, turning back to the counter where he set his laptop. He carried it into the kitchen mainly because he still has Reiner on Skype, but partially in the hopes that a different setting might inspire him to finish writing the fight scene he's been struggling with all day. But so far, it's not working. Maybe it's because he knows fuck-all about swords. He should've picked a later time period, one where his characters can just shoot each other Indiana Jones style and he doesn't have to spend six hours researching combat footwork. He sighs and leans over the counter, staring blankly at his laptop. The green camera light shines in his eyes. The sound of Reiner's fingers at work on his keyboard echoes through the speaker, and Bertholdt scowls before reaching out to mute his laptop. The point of their cowriting Skype sessions is to motivate both of them to work, but knowing that Reiner is thousands of words ahead of him is really not helping Bertholdt tonight.

Maybe it's not too late to change the setting of the story. Maybe it's not too late to change his story entirely. Maybe it's not too late to drop out of the MFA and move to the woods to become a hermit. 

A text message appears in the top right corner of his screen. Bertholdt leans over, sipping on his coffee.

** Reiner**  
i said bring me a cup  
wtf did you mute me? 

Bertholdt hits the unmute button.

"Sorry," he mutters, heaving his laptop onto one arm. He cradles it against his elbow, warm mug of coffee in his other hand as he ambles out of the kitchen and drags himself back to his bedroom. 

"Did you mute me?" Reiner exclaims, his voice screeching through the computer. "What the hell?"

"It's annoying that you're doing better than me," Bertholdt grumbles. The floor creaks beneath him as he backs up against his bedroom door to close it. He needs to call his landlord tomorrow about the water heater. "I've barely written anything today." 

"I'm not _doing better _than you. I'm just writing."

"At least you're doing that." Bertholdt sinks back into his desk and lets out a sigh, coffee mug clutched between his hands. He fumbles with the mousepad to switch windows on his computer; he closes out of the half-empty Google Doc he's been staring at and opens Skype to see Reiner hard at work. He's multitasking; he continues to type as he talks to Bertholdt, stopping every once in a while to respond to a _ding _from his phone. He hasn't even bothered to change out of his work clothes, and to that end, he's still sweaty from half a day of teaching housewives how to hold themselves upright on a barre. 

"It's all bullshit," Reiner says, head bent over his keyboard. He slams out a few more words, then glances into the camera and gives Bertholdt the panicked smile of a graduate student on a deadline. "It's all total bullshit."

Bertholdt takes a sip of coffee. "At least you have bullshit. I have less than bullshit."

"Then stop complaining and start making bullshit." 

"Bossy," Bertholdt breathes, pulling himself upright at his desk. He sets his coffee mug aside and thumbs back to his story outline.

"Oh, you have no idea."

Bertholdt parses through the remainder of his outline, cringing inside. It's stupid, all of it, but he's nearly halfway to his goal word count. If he can just meet this deadline tonight, then he can start something new for next week, something that might actually have the potential to be a manuscript. He just has to get there first. He sighs, clicking back to his Google Doc and scrolls up the empty page to reread what he's already written. 

"I was actually looking forward to the critique for once," he sighs, reaching for his coffee cup. "I thought I actually had something here. But now-"

"Now that you're about to miss the deadline?" Reiner jokes. Bertholdt can only see half of his grin, the rest obscured by his Google Doc window. "I know. But once you finish it, you don't have to think about it again until next week."

"Great, and then I get to hear everyone's opinions."

Reiner starts hitting the backspace furiously. "Hey, we're all going to turn in bullshit together. Zeke can't fail all of us." 

"I wouldn't be so sure," Bertholdt mutters. He takes another sip of coffee. "God, I'm tired."

"Aw, poor baby."

"Shut up." 

"Take a nap and get up in an hour to finish."

"That's lunacy," Bertholdt exclaims, setting his mug down. "I don't understand how you do stuff like that."

"It guess it'd be hard if I slept like the dead." Reiner pauses, his gaze moving across his computer screen for a minute before he glances back into the camera. "Remember when you slept through the fire alarm and your apartment almost burned down?" 

"It did not almost burn down," Bertholdt mutters. He opens a plain text file, hoping he can work around the distractions of Google Docs. "But I did burn my dinner."

"Don't make it sound like you cook. You were making soy nuggets."

"I was using the oven," Bertholdt says. "That counts as cooking."

"Sure, and I cooked this cup of tea."

"Leave me alone. I'm tired."

The tapping of Reiner's keyboard comes to a top, and he sighs. "I'm gonna take a break. You better have made some progress by the time I get back."

"Please go take a shower. You haven't moved in four hours. I can smell you from here."

He hears Reiner laugh. "Bye, Bear. I'll be back in a bit."

"Bye," Bertholdt mutters, and Skype _bloops_ as Reiner ends the call.

Bertholdt tries to refocus on his laptop. He watches the blinking cursor in his Google Doc, sitting at the end of an unfinished sentence. He checks the word count. 7,279. He's supposed to submit ten thousand words tonight for next week's critique. Ten thousand words of a concept that could be expanded into a full manuscript, which he'll have to write someday for his thesis, pending approval of the board. But instead of hammering out those last few thousand words today, Bertholdt has spent his time grading papers, doing laundry, and staring at his ceiling. 

He sinks back into his hair and huffs. Maybe he should take a break to clean his room. He still has papers from undergrad crammed into his desk drawers, not to mention the ever precarious stack of books that continues to grow beneath his window, threatening to tip at any minute. Wouldn't it be a much better use of his time to organize those books? He already knows it wouldn't, and he purses his lips, scrolling back through what he's already written. He should have just made this story about a suffering graduate student. At least then he could've projected onto his main character. Instead he's dug himself into this alternate Tudor history plot with no end in sight. 

Writing sucks, he decides, before opening Twitter for the twenty-fifth time in the last hour. It's just the same shit as the last time he looked, so he clicks over to his email, immediately panics at the number of unread emails in his inbox, then clicks back to Twitter and settles for scrolling through things he's already seen. Somehow scrolling through Twitter becomes watching random YouTube videos, and when a sudden buzzing startles Bertholdt out of his rabbit hole, it's already 10:45.

He blinks, glancing away from his laptop. His phone is lying still on his bed, the screen lit up with a notification. He set it aside earlier to prevent distractions, but that's not very effective when the biggest distraction of all would be actually writing something. He closes YouTube, reassuring himself that loving Jenna Marbles is not a choice, and swivels his chair around to grab his phone. The notification is from Reiner. Except it's not a text asking to see if he's still working or an email asking for a quick beta read. It's a snap. Bertholdt doesn't even remember installing Snapchat, which means that it probably happened years ago, when he was an alcoholic undergrad with no friends and a lot to say about Holden Caulfield. 

He swipes ceaselessly before he finds Snapchat hidden in an unnamed folder of otherwise abandoned apps, like Tinder and Venmo and Health, because he has no love life, no money, and no energy to do anything more than sit at his desk and slowly decay. He swivels back to his desk, praying that Reiner is sending him news of a disaster. The English department has burned down, or their professor has spontaneously combusted, or Bertholdt is being framed for murder and has to go on the run. Anything that will save him from having to meet this deadline tonight. He opens the message and gets a face full of cock. 

Literally. 

A darkened video plays on the phone, the audio muffled by Bertholdt's thumb. But the visual is undeniable, and when the video ends ten seconds later, Bertholdt drools onto his shirt and slaps the replay button.

Reiner's hand slides over his swollen cock. Slick drops of pre-cum shine under the harsh light of his phone camera as his thumb massages his head, pink and wet. He groans, his breath echoing through the speaker. His fist starts moving, jerking up and down his shift in an increasingly frantic rhythm, until a thick load of cum erupts over his hand, dripping down his fingers as he sighs in the background. The camera shifts just enough to capture a full view of his cock as pumps it through to the end, his skin shining in the darkness. Then the camera moves again, and the video ends. 

Bertholdt stares at his phone. 

He doesn't. Did that just. Why would. 

He can't finish any of those thoughts. All of a sudden, he's _hard_, an erection springing up in his track pants as he sits and gapes at the empty message, the video now gone forever. And because it's after dark and he's alone and he's hit absolute rock bottom, he drops his phone onto his desk and digs a hand down into his boxers. 

His cock is already hard when he gets it into his hand, breathing a sigh of immediate relief. That doesn't last for long, not when the video begins replaying in his mind. The wet slick beneath Reiner's fingers as he stroked himself, and the unholy noises he made, the sighs and moans echoing through Bertholdt's bedroom. Thinking about it sends a shiver through his spine. He shakes his mouth falling open as he curls a fist around his cock. He lets his eyes fall shut.

He strokes himself, up and down, slow to start. The touch on his skin is unreal, unlike anything he's ever felt, and he can't keep his mind from repeating the video. It plays again, and this time he thinks about Reiner's touch on himself. His big, calloused hands cupping Bertholdt's balls. His long fingers trailing up Bertholdt's length as he whispers on Bertholdt's skin. His tongue passing over the head of Bertholdt's wet cock.

The thought of Reiner's tongue on him sends a flood of heat through Bertholdt's body. He can't help but gasp, picking up the rhythm of his movements. With his other hand, he fumbles at the waistband of his track pants, pushing them down with his boxers to get a better grip on himself. The sudden cold air sends goosebumps across his stomach. He slides the thick skin of his thumb over his head, and he moans in shallow breaths as he drags pre-cum back down his length, his hand moving even faster. 

It doesn't take long after that. Between the heat, the cold, and the friction, Bertholdt goes spiraling over the edge with a groan. He finishes hard, cum shooting into his hand. It splashes onto the waistband of his pants. He falls back into his chair, panting.

The room spins for a minute. Bertholdt blinks, then glances down at his spent cock.

"Fuck," he mutters.

He just did that. He just sat at his desk and jerked himself off in twenty seconds like a touch starved high schooler in the bathroom at a house party. He hasn't come so hard in years. The exhilarating release he feels as he strokes a bead of cum along his relaxing length comes to an abrupt end when he realizes that he just jerked off to Reiner. 

Reiner, his best friend, who has seen him through the thick and thin of the last year, the hardest days of their lives as they navigate a graduate program that neither of them feel remotely qualified to be in. It's always been Reiner who's had his back, who's given him honest critiques, who gets drunk with him on weekdays when the prospect of actually finishing a novel one day seems like too much to bear, who Skypes with him every Thursday night to make sure they each have something to turn in for next week's critique. 

What if it's always been Reiner?

Bertholdt jerks upright in his chair. The thought is so dangerously enticing that his heart stops beating for a second. They've had their fair share of homoerotic moments, from subtle glances during romance readings to joining an all-male recreational volleyball team together. They're constantly mistaken for a couple anyways. They use it to get discounts on Valentine's Day. Would it be so out of the question for that to come true? 

He drops his cock and reaches for the bath towel hanging on his bedpost. He can't think like that. It was just a video. Granted, it was a video of Reiner masturbating and it came totally out of nowhere, but it doesn't have to mean anything. Surely it doesn't mean anything. Surely Reiner was just being... friendly. 

Bertholdt's phone buzzes again.

He starts, glancing warily at his phone. Oh god, what if there's more? With shaking hands, he tosses the towel aside and reaches for his phone. It's just a text. 

** Reiner**   
did you finish?

**Bertholdt is typing**

**Reiner**  
i bet you didn't even write anything

**Bertholdt**   
oh  
no i didn't 

**Reiner**   
come on dude

**Bertholdt**  
midnight is just a suggestion

**Reiner**   
interesting interpretation of the word "deadline" 

Bertholdt leans back in his chair, staring at his phone. This is a strangely nonchalant conversation, considering Reiner sent him a ten second porno just minutes ago. Why hasn't Reiner said anything? Oh god, was Bertholdt was supposed to reply? Is he supposed to bring it up? Is there some kind of horny social cue here that Bertholdt isn't picking up on? He grimaces and waffles before settling for some basic probing. 

**Bertholdt**  
what are you doing rn?

**Reiner**  
not much wyd baby ;) ;P ?

**Bertholdt is typing**

**Reiner**  
jk i'm back to writing  
obviously i'm writing. what else would i be doing?

**Bertholdt**  
idk  
i thought you were taking a break

**Reiner**  
i did. i got naked in the shower and everything

**Bertholdt**  
haha

**Reiner**  
i knew you weren't going to write  
i bet you got distracted softblocking ppl on twitter

**Bertholdt**  
i've already softblocked everyone

**Reiner**  
of course you have  
never change, bear

**Bertholdt**  
lol

**Reiner**  
i'm going to bed soonish  
text me when you finish so we can swap for notes

**Bertholdt**  
okay

**Reiner**  
i promise i'll be nice ;)

Bertholdt bites his lip. His heart pounds as he scrolls back through the conversation, euphemisms and all. He can't tell if the double entendres are intentional or if he's reading too much into Reiner's words. That's how he normally talks, after all, and he still hasn't mentioned the video. But something about him is especially lively tonight, considering they have a major deadline in two hours. Usually he's a nervous wreck before critiques no matter how what he's written. Something has him in a good mood. Something like finally making a move on his best friend? 

It wouldn't be like Reiner to play games with someone's feelings. Maybe he's being coy on purpose. Maybe he's being a tease, tempting Bertholdt to throw away his work and make a mad dash across town to ravish him on his kitchen floor.

God. He's hard again. 

He types out a quick goodnight & good luck, knowing that neither of them will be coherent enough to provide concrit tonight. He sets his phone aside and stares blankly at his computer screen. 

He can't stop thinking about the video, but he has to play it cool. Reiner would have been blunt if he'd wanted to: hey Bear, it would be really hot if we fucked, right? What about if we got a mortgage together? He would've said so, if he'd wanted to say it; but instead he chose to toy around by sending a video and lacing an innocent conversation with double meanings. So, Reiner doesn't want to talk about it. He wants to drop hints. He wants to send winky faces and insert subtext. He wants to ride the waves of homoerotic tension between them, sticking to their skin like static on a balloon. 

Something ignites in Bertholdt's stomach. He switches to a new document, swallows his pride, and begins writing.

The tall door creaked as Bertholdt pulled it open with one hand, clutching the strap of his messenger bag to his shoulder with his other hand. He ducked his head from a glare of afternoon sunlight that beamed over the top of the building and he stepped inside, breathing a sigh of relief as the silence of the English building rushed over him. He turned his gaze over the quiet foyer, one of the few places undisturbed by students on a Friday afternoon. The only noise came an office down the hall, the sound of a professor typing out a critique, and the occasional trickle of a faucet somewhere else in the building, a subtle sign of life. Otherwise, peace and quiet. Bertholdt reveled in it for a moment, feeling whole in such a sacred, untouched space before he continued inside. 

His shoes tapped softly against the wooden floor as he walked, heading along a familiar path into the heart of the building. He passed a few familiar faces on his way upstairs, fellow graduate students who nodded at him from over the tops of their books. He came to his destination at the end of the hallway, the office of the English teaching assistants, with tall white walls and stacks of books that nearly reached the ceiling. It was one of Bertholdt's favorite places to work, and it was always a good place for uninterrupted contemplation of quiet afternoons. He hoped he’d be able to concentrate on his work there. 

But as he entered the room, he realized that he was not alone. He heard a scratching as he steps through the doorway, the telltale sound of pen on paper, and when he surveyed the room, his gaze latched onto someone blond, absorbed in their writing. 

Bertholdt lingered in the doorway. Reiner hadn’t seen him yet, and if he turned around now, maybe he could disappear without being noticed. But he had work to do at his desk, and more than that, he had no reason to be afraid to speak to Reiner. No reason except for the incriminating message he opened last night, the one that sent flames through his veins and kept him awake until dawn. He nearly blushed just thinking about it again, but he managed to swallow that and make up his mind. There was no reason to make a big deal out of nothing. He would just continue as he had before. 

No sooner had he started into the room than Reiner glanced up from his work, blinking as Bertholdt approached the table where he sat. 

“Oh, hi,” Reiner said, staring up at him. Afternoon sunlight shone in through a partially covered window, and the dust in the air sparkled before his eyes. 

Bertholdt swallowed the lump in his throat. “Hi. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here.”

“I know,” Reiner said, glancing down at his work. He had papers strewn across the table and a stack of books within arms reach. He looked at them, his gaze meandering. He bit his lip as he glanced back up towards Bertholdt. “Sorry, I hope I’m not interrupting your work.”

“No, of course not,” Bertholdt exclaimed. His sweaty fingers tightened on the strap of his backpack. “There’s room for both of us.” 

“I was actually hoping that I’d see you here,” Reiner admitted. He met Bertholdt’s eyes for a moment, then broke into a smile and ducked his head. 

Bertholdt watched him, his heart beating faster. He knew he shouldn’t think about the video, that it should go unspoken between them like a secret, but when he looked at Reiner, it was all he could imagine. His lithe fingers wet with cum, jerking himself off as he moaned. The way he must have looked in that dark room, one hand holding the phone, the other on his cock, and the way he would look in the daytime. His head tilted back as he barely kept himself seated on the edge of his bed, shivering with anticipation of his climax. Shuddering in pleasure when it finally came. And his shaky fingers, pressing Bertholdt’s name when he sent the video.

“Were you?” Bertholdt asked. His voice came out softer than he intended, and he couldn’t help but blush a tiny bit.

Reiner glanced up at him, still smiling.

“Yes,” he said. “Of course I was. Why else would I be here? I was waiting for you.”

“For me?” Bertholdt echoed.

“Bertholdt,” Reiner said, nearly whispering. “Why else would I have sent you that video?”

He felt his cheeks flush, and he turned his head to the side. “I wasn’t sure, I thought maybe it was a mistake- or maybe that it didn’t really mean anything. Just something friends do.” 

Reiner rose from his seat slowly, pen falling out of his hands as he did so. He drew himself up to Bertholdt’s height, still on the other side of the table, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft but stronger, as though as he was completely certain of his words. 

“I’ve never had a friend like you,” he said. “Is that something friends do, Bertholdt? Watch each other from afar for years and wonder what they’d have to do to get closer? Drop hints and take chances until they just can’t bear it anymore?”

Bertholdt meets his eyes. “Is that what you’ve been doing, Reiner?”

He turns red as he smiles at Bertholdt. “It took you long enough to figure it out. Turns out all I needed to do was be a little bolder.”

“How could anyone misinterpret that video?” Bertholdt asked, his voice cracking a bit as he smiled. “Even I understood that, deep down.”

“I knew you would,” Reiner breathed. He hesitated on his next words, glancing away before he met Bertholdt’s eyes again. “So, how did I do? Am I the kind of friend you’re looking for?”

“I don’t want to be friends,” Bertholdt said.

Reiner smiled. “Then kiss me.” 

There was a thud as Bertholdt's bag fell to the floor, no longer held in place on his shoulder, because he reached across and took Reiner's face in his hands, stopping only for a moment to consider how beautiful Reiner looked in the golden sunlight, how gloriously his eyes sparkled, and how well he fit into Bertholdt's hands. It was only a second, before Bertholdt leaned in and kissed him. Their lips collided in heat, and they fit perfectly together. He was warm beneath Bertholdt’s touch, his lips soft; Reiner’s hands began to travel, pressed against Bertholdt’s shoulder, then grasping at the collar of his shirt, holding on relentlessly. 

They broke apart, but only for a moment. Reiner leaned in again and pressed their lips back together, one hand trailing up Bertholdt’s neck to cup his jaw as they kissed. Bertholdt let his fingers fall and brush against Reiner’s collarbone, exposed from beneath the wide collar of his tee-shirt. Reiner hummed at his touch. He pulled back again, breathing heavily, and held their faces barely an inch apart, staring deep into Bertholdt’s eyes. 

“I think I’m in love with you,” he murmured. He cupped Bertholdt’s face, staring deeply into his eyes. “I think I’ve been in love with you all this time. I’m such a fool. How could I not have realized my feelings sooner?”

“Don’t,” Bertholdt said softly. “I didn’t realize either.”

Reiner came closer, but only slightly. His breath was hot on Bertholdt’s lips, and his eyes glimmered. “Do you love me?” he asked.

“Of course,” Bertholdt said. “Always.” 

“Then make love to me,” Reiner breathed.

Bertholdt leaned in to kiss him again, taking Reiner's face in his hands and pressing their lips together hard. The heat of their bodies rose in their blood as their chests pressed against each other. He could feel Reiner moving beneath him, moaning against his lips as the warmth of their touch intensified. Bertholdt began to trail kisses downwards, grazing along Reiner's chin down to his neck and his exposed collarbones, reveling there in the fragile touch of bare skin against his lips. He took his teeth and left a gentle mark on Reiner's skin; it was a pink reminder that he'd been there before and that he would be there forevermore. Reiner hummed at the lingering touch, and finally, Bertholdt couldn't bear to hold back anymore. The heat in the room rose insatiably, and he wanted Reiner badly. 

He fumbled with the hem of Reiner's shirt, stepping back to get a good look at him as Reiner lifted his arms to let the shirt roll off his body. It brushed over his short hair as it came off over his head, leaving him looking windswept, and Bertholdt let the shirt fall to the ground without another though, his hands instinctively reaching to steady himself on Reiner's shoulders. Beneath his fingers, Reiner's skin was warm. He trailed his hands down Reiner's chest, from his firm pecs to the lean muscle on his stomach, flexing and relaxing beneath Bertholdt's tingling touch. Reiner shivered, his mouth falling open, his eyes falling shut. He clutched one hand to Bertholdt's elbow to hold himself upright, the other toying at the collar of Bertholdt's shirt. His hand trailed down from there, as if to work on undoing Bertholdt's buttons, but he seemed to get lost in the moment, the touch of his bare skin overwhelming any of his other thoughts. Bertholdt smiled to himself. He loved that about Reiner, the way he got lost in things. Bertholdt leaned in to press a kiss to the corner of Reiner's lips, wondering how he'd gotten so lucky to end up with this man as his. 

"Let me help you with that," he murmured, smiling, as he began to undo his shirt buttons.

Reiner smiled, stifling a laugh, and he set his hands on Bertholdt's shoulders. He watched with attention as Bertholdt's buttons came undone, revealing the skin beneath. Reiner leaned in and pressed his lips there, just over Bertholdt's heart, as his shirt fell to the floor, undone. Bertholdt quivered beneath his touch, and when Reiner looked up, he made his move. He cupped Reiner's face in his hands and kissed him fully, deeply, their heart and bodies moving in rhythm together. He felt Reiner's pulse quicken, his own heart beating faster as the kiss deepened, as their bare chests pressed together and their lips wandered to land on shoulders and stomachs. Bertholdt's mouth trailed down, his hands following not far behind, caressing the warm skin of Reiner's chest as he pressed soft kisses down Reiner's stomach. Reiner gasped at each little touch, hands clenching onto Bertholdt's shoulder to steady himself.

Bertholdt paused just above the waistline of Reiner's jeans, his heart suddenly caught in his throat. He stood upright, glancing at Reiner, and he caught the warm afternoon sunlight passing in lazy beams across Reiner's face, highlighting his fluttering eyelashes, his pink lips, gaping as he pushed a hand back against his brow, overwhelmed by touch, but begging for more. Bertholdt smiled, still nervous, but confident now, knowing that Reiner wanted this just as much as he did. Of course he wanted this. For so long, they'd been dancing around each other, flirting without meaning to, exchanging looks that lingered in their minds, standing too close, always finding excuses to be near each other. This was a long time coming, and he couldn't wait any longer.

He set his hands on Reiner's waist and dropped to his knees. He felt Reiner gasp when he set to work undoing the buttons of his jeans, and he glanced up to be certain that this was what Reiner wanted. A moment later, he felt Reiner's hands in his hair, soft but firm, holding onto him, and Reiner stared down at him with a hunger that he had never seen before, a thirst in his eyes that begged Bertholdt not to stop.

"Is this okay?" Bertholdt asked in a whisper. He undid Reiner's zipper with a deft hand, never breaking eye contact.

Reiner nodded, his lips pursed, unable to speak. He brushed a thumb over Bertholdt's forehead.

Bertholdt could feel Reiner in his jeans, getting harder by the second. He took his tome, rolling the jeans down Reiner's thighs to expose his black briefs, clinging to his skin. His cock bulged in the front, a sight that made Bertholdt shiver when he looked at it, suddenly imagining what it would feel like inside of him. That was a thought for later, he told himself coyly, and he reached out a tender hand to grasp Reiner's length through his briefs.

Reiner gasped. "Oh, god."

"Do you want this?" Bertholdt asked, leaning in. He pressed a kiss to Reiner's length over his briefs, his breath warm on the fabric as he cupped Reiner, his eyes closing.

"God, yes, Bear. Keep going."

Bertholdt kissed him again, but it wasn't enough with the fabric beneath his lips. Suddenly impatient, his fingers itching to dig themselves into the skin of Reiner's thighs, he reached up and unrolled Reiner's briefs, exposing him to the afternoon sunlight. His cock hung gloriously, popping upright to attention, thick and pink and already wet at the head. Bertholdt admired him for a moment, one hand hooking around the back of Reiner's thighs to stroke the sensitive skin there, another cupping his balls between his fingers. He leaned in and gave a tentative flick of his tongue over the shaft of Reiner's cock. The touch elicited a sharp moan from Reiner, and Bertholdt couldn't help but smile to himself. He wanted to make Reiner feel good, feel great, give him everything he wanted and more, and he knew that this was a good start.

He pressed his lips to Reiner's shaft, letting his eyes fall shut as he did. The skin felt familiar between his lips, and at once, he found his rhythm. He moved his lips up Reiner's length, a shiver running along his spine every time he heard Reiner moan. His own erection was straining in his jeans at one that point, and he wondered which one of them would cum first. He wondered if he would cum just by the sound of Reiner's gasps and moans. His tongue reached the head of Reiner's cock, and after an experimental swipe to get the taste of his slick pre-cum, Bertholdt grabbed Reiner's cock by its base and dove in, taking him inside his mouth.

"Oh, god, Bear," Reiner panted, his hand clenched in Bertholdt's hair. "Don't stop, don't stop, that's so

** Reiner **  
you still up? 

The message blinks in the top right corner of his computer screen. Bertholdt stares at it for a moment, his mouth falling open as he processes the words. He snaps his lips shut, his eyes going wide, and he glances in horror at the clock. Ten minutes after midnight, and his assignment is sitting unfinished in an abandoned Google Doc.

"Shit," he hisses.

Midnight is a suggestion, he reminds himself, and he's definitely submitted things later than this; but they were completed things, fully written things that at least had a beginning and an end. Bertholdt fumbles through the folders of his Google Drive, swallowing the realization that he can't finish his piece tonight, not even if he works at it for the next few hours. He could gamble and submit something tomorrow, but Zeke has been known to close submissions on the deadline, right down to the minute. Bertholdt dives into his WIP folder and snatches something abandoned that he wrote last summer. It's trash, and he'll get wrecked at the critique, but it hits the word count. He'll survive. He downloads the document and uploads it to the critique forum before the clock has struck 12:15. 

He drops back into his chair and sighs as another message comes through.

** Reiner **  
did you turn it in?

Bertholdt stares at the message. He reaches out to respond after a moment, but his fingers hover over the keyboard, motionless, thoughtless, and suddenly all he can see is Reiner's smiling face, panting and moaning as Bertholdt deepthroats him. 

**Reiner **  
dare i check the forum to see if ur lying? 

**Bertholdt **  
haha  
i turned it in

**Reiner **  
whew i got worried for a second ;)  
ok good night bear

Bertholdt's heart screams through his chest. His fingers shake as he scrolls through his tabs, shifting back to the untitled doc that fills him with terror now that he rereads it. A two thousand word confession of utter love and adoration, with bonus cock sucking at the end. Over two thousand words admitting that he would do anything for Reiner, and it's all he can do not to melt into the floor and die. 

**Bertholdt **  
god night  
*good night

**Reiner **  
haha good night <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;)


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertholdt continues to lose it.

Lack of adequate sleep due to tossing and turning. Overdose of cheap coffee for breakfast, stimulating the chronic anxiety of a graduate student, feeding the existential fatigue of a writer. Moral depravity and carpal tunnel. The diagnosis is clear. Bertholdt is fucked up. 

He repeats this to himself on Friday morning as he watches his reflection in the bus driver's mirror. If he thought his undergrad years were miserable, then he knew nothing. Hubris has finally caught up to him and the bags under his eyes. Bertholdt Hoover is a monster, though he finds the chance to briefly believe in God again as he prays that none of his students will notice how much he's sweating. Or rather, that none of them will comment on it in front of the whole class. They'll definitely notice.

"Back door, please," he shouts in muted, sleepy tones when the driver fails to open the door at his stop. He clears his throat. "Back door- oh, okay. I'll get off there." 

He disembarks at the next stop and drags himself back five blocks to campus. He's early for class anyways. He woke up at five a.m. in a horny terror and couldn't fall back asleep lest visions of Reiner's cock continued to dance in his dreams. He nearly gets run over by the women's basketball team on his trudge across the quad. When he fails to slap himself awake, he heads to the coffee kiosk in the lobby of the humanities building and continues to feed his caffeine addiction. If brain wants go-go juice, then Bertholdt is brain's bitch. At the pick-up window, one of his fellow grad students is transfixed in marking up a student's shitty Beowulf essay. He stands next to her and tries not to show the guilt on his face as he fidgets. Bean juice will fix everything.

"You look like shit," Annie mutters without looking at him. Her lips twitch as if she can barely keep herself from leaving "more than usual" off the end of her sentence. The barista is met with a glare when they deliver a drink that isn't hers. She scowls and leans against the counter. Her pen marks a strict D at the top of the essay.

"Stay up all night or something?" she asks.

Bertholdt rubs his eyes. "Something like that."

"Reiner sent me an email at five a.m. Notes on our project for contemporary lit. How do either of you function without sleep?" 

"It's a luxury we can't afford," Bertholdt mumbles, like he had to stay up late jerking off to support his starving family. For sale: left hand. Never used. 

Annie glances up. "Write anything good lately?"

Reiner's cock shoved down his throat.

Bertholdt coughs. "No."

"Hm," Annie says. "Then I guess I can look forward to destroying you on Monday."

"Monday," Bertholdt repeats.

"The critique."

"Sorry. I'm tired." He shakes his head. "No, thank God. I turned in something completely normal and boring for the critique." 

She goes back to destroying souls with her red pen. "Okay."

A booming laugh sounds from the main corridor, and Bertholdt glances over in time to catch a glimpse of Reiner starting up the stairs with a pair of his students. Bertholdt recognizes them as the two undergraduate girls deeply in love with Reiner despite sitting through his queer fiction seminar every week, and he recognizes Reiner's laugh as overly loud, forced, just in case anyone within earshot would like to save him from the asinine ramblings of sophomore English students. They disappear onto the second floor, and the laugh vanishes with them. 

Bertholdt's heart clenches. He imagines Reiner's hand moving across his cock, Reiner's lips wet and ripe as he goes down on Bertholdt. Reiner's cum-covered fingers, choosing Bertholdt's name from his contacts. Reiner, waiting in anticipation for a response. Bertholdt, leaving him hanging. 

Annie snatches her latte from the pick-up window. "He's as popular as ever with the young ladies."

"It's fetishization," Bertholdt agrees, thinking about Reiner's ass. 

"What?" Annie mutters in mock exclamation. "Women? Fetishize? How dare you. It's almost ten. Playing hooky today, professor?"

"No," Bertholdt sighs. He should be looking forward to class. Teaching Hamlet to freshmen who hate reading is always a miserable time and it should be the perfect distraction until he can figure out what to do next.

"Just show up ten minutes late. Enough to keep them arguing about whether or not they can leave."

"Some of them will leave within ten minutes anyways," Bertholdt says. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "You haven't started reading anyone's stuff yet, have you?"

She folds her papers in half and shoves them under her arm to grab the bagel that comes through the window next. "You ask that every week. You know no one reads anything until the night before."

"It's just going to be a busy weekend-"

"Pieck reads everything on Monday morning."

"Really?" Bertholdt asks. He steps forward to get his coffee and sniffs it. He's almost positive that he can smell dairy, but he'll take his chances. If he dies, he dies. "She always gives the best feedback."

"Because she doesn't give herself the chance to revise her criticism into politeness," Annie says. She shoves her bagel into the front pocket of her bag, unwrapped, like a monster, and waves goodbye with her papers before starting upstairs towards the English department. He lingers for another moment, staring down at his coffee, and heads to class too. 

The lack of sleep catches up to Bertholdt. The latte too, because halfway through his freshmen's attempt at a Socratic debate, he has a sudden and overwhelming urge to vomit. He makes it until someone tries to argue that Shakespeare wasn't even real so they shouldn't even have to read him, and then he concedes to a teacher's worst nightmare and excuses himself from the classroom. Taking deep breaths, he stumbles halfway to the bathroom before he is stopped in the corridor by a sudden voice from inside a classroom. He glances to his right.

Through the frosted window of the seminar door, Bertholdt can make out Reiner's distinct shape as he addresses his students. He moves back and forth before the board, his fingers gesturing deftly, the book in his hands gripped with ferocity. His broad shoulders, flexing beneath his tight cotton shirt, distracting all of his students. His chest, full from his workout the day before, threatening to pop shirt buttons at any moments. The tapering of his waist down to the curve of his ass, and the skinny jeans he wears that he knows are too tight. 

Bertholdt's mouth goes dry. His body clenches so hard that he may never experience normal digestive functions ever again. He jerks around and retreats to his classroom. 

"Okay," he exclaims when he steps back into the room. "What are we talking about?" 

"Alissa Violet," someone helpfully shouts.

"I don't know who that is," Bertholdt says. "What about Shakespeare?" 

"Shakespeare never scammed his followers out of free Gucci." 

"It was Louis Vuitton, you asshole!"

Bertholdt raises his voice. "Okay, we're going back to Shakespeare now. Let's move on to the last question, about Hamlet and Ophelia. Group five, what did you say for that one?" 

He lets them fish for answers. He leans back against his desk as the students squabble in their group, gesturing for each other to speak aloud. He lets his gaze pass over the classroom until he's staring out the window into the blank white beyond. He tries not to think about Reiner. Fingers around his wet cock, jerking up and down, his breath coming in moans, his grip on the camera unsteady. The curve of Reiner's lips, pink and round, and the touch of them against Bertholdt's neck. His chest, flexing as he stretches his arms over his head. His hipbones pressing tenderly against his skin, his thighs thick and meaty. His mussed hair against Bertholdt's pillow after being ravished. What he'd look like the morning after. What he'll look like when Bertholdt corners him after class, confronts him about the video, and then they get engaged. What he'll look like at fifty, unable to sleep past sunrise. Making a low-cholesterol breakfast and wishing their children would call more.

"But he was in love with her-"

"You can't just say that. You don't _ know _that."

"It's an interpretation!"

"Then phrase it like one! You can't just decide what Shakespeare wanted because you're projecting your hots for Hamlet onto Ophelia!" 

Bertholdt positions _ The Complete Works of William Shakespeare _carefully on his lap. "Okay, let's get back to the point."

"Am I wrong though?"

"Shakespeare has been widely interpreted by many scholars," he explains. "If you can support your argument, then it's a valid point to bring to the discussion. We're not here to argue canon. This is a 100 level class." 

"Okay, fine! It's my interpretation that Hamlet loved Ophelia. There. I was going to say more about the nunnery scene, but now I feel like I'm going to be attacked, so I'll just shut up." 

"Oh my god," a student mutters from the back of the classroom.

Bertholdt agrees. Instead of clawing his hands down his face until his eyeballs pop out of his skull, he glances around the room of yawning students and pretends that he was listening to their entire discussion. He grips _ The Complete Works _tighter. "Any other thoughts before we wrap up?"

A quiet student at the front shrugs and looks up at him. "I always thought Hamlet and Horatio had more chemistry."

"Gayyyy," someone quips. 

"Thanks," Bertholdt says to them. He gestures to the student at the front. "Go on."

"You know," the student says. They flip through _ No Fear Shakespeare _and shrug again. "Horatio is, like, one of the only people that Hamlet can really trust though this whole thing. Everyone else dips on him. But Horatio, like, swears himself to secrecy and loyalty and stuff. He's ready to kill himself in the last bit as Hamlet lays dying. That's more than we ever see from Ophelia."

"We don't know what happened offscreen though," another student says. "Offstage, whatever."

"We don't," Bertholdt agrees. "Remember our discussion about context last week? The lack thereof is just as important to note. As the text implies, we may not have the full background of Hamlet and Ophelia's relationship." 

"Okay, but surely offscreen romance would translate into onscreen chemistry. I'm just saying, Horatio's devotion to Hamlet is, like... contextualized. It doesn't need to be interpreted. And that's hella romantic."

"That doesn't mean they're lovers," another student offers.

"It doesn't mean they're _ not _ lovers. Horatio's catching some kind of feelings. I don't know if Hamlet sees that, and whether or not it's love or _ love _, that's another question, I guess. But there's something serious going on there. Something totally unspoken that's been there for years, even if they don't know it. Something that exists without having to be justified."

Someone scoffs. Someone else mutters, "That's a whole ass thesis."

"Do we have to swear every five seconds," a student mutters from the back in a mock intonation of Bertholdt's exasperated teaching voice.

The freshmen titter with laughter, and the conversation fades out. The clock ticks in the background, second by second, and for a moment, it is all Bertholdt can hear as he sits, motionless, staring down at the pages of _ Hamlet _. 

"Yo," one of the students shouts.

Bertholdt jerks upright. His book slip from his grip, and he fumbles for it, tearing one of the pages in the process. The classroom ripples with barely contained laughter, and when he finally composes himself, the students are already packing their bags.

"Yeah," Bertholdt says, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes. "That was good, thanks, guys."

The student in the front looks at him. "What about my idea?"

Bertholdt blinks. "What?"

"That Hamlet and Horatio had a thing?"

"Uh, sure. That's valid."

"But do you agree?"

The other students are packing up, throwing books into their bags and escaping the classroom with phones in hands. Someone in the back mutters, "They didn't have gay people in Shakespeare's time," as they shuffle out of their chair, and they're subsequently hit with an empty water bottle as someone else shouts, "You dumbass, gay people weren't invented by Lady Gaga." The student in the front continues to stare at Bertholdt even as he circles back around his desk and reaches for his bag.

"Some scholars would agree," Bertholdt says. He manages to fit his Shakespeare brick into his backpack. "Remember, essays on Hamlet's foils are due next class. 1,500 words."

"That's so long!"

"That's literally nothing," Bertholdt mutters. He catches sight of the flyer lying on his desk. "Oh, also, the MFA program is hosting a reading tomorrow night with-"

He glances up. "Oh, thank God. They're gone." 

Bertholdt finishes packing his bag and slings it over his shoulder, letting his eyes fall shut for a minute. His only consolation is that it's Friday afternoon. He just has to get home, and then he can retreat from the world for a while, get started on some work, and figure out what to say to Reiner. He's got to put a little more research into that. He already tried googling _help my best friend sexted me and now i'm in love with him _and he got no advice on how to respond. Useless.

He grabs the projector remote and points it at the projector. Nothing. He clicks again. Nope. 

A tap-tap on the door. "Knock, knock! Can I come in, Professor?" 

Bertholdt glances up. "Hi."

Reiner leans against the doorway, his arms crossed. The sleeves of his dotted white shirt are rolled up to his elbows, one side messier than the other, and though his buttons are tightened to the top like a priest, it does amazing things for his figure. He's got shoulders as wide as the china cabinet in Bertholdt's grandmother's dining room. It's where she keeps her fine china. 

He nods at Bertholdt. "Hey." 

"Hi," Bertholdt says. His throat clenches. "Hi. Hey."

"Hey," Reiner says with a laugh. His nose wrinkles when he does, and he meanders inside, his backpack hanging over one shoulder. "What's up?"

"Nothing," Bertholdt exclaims. He furiously pounds the remote. "Just trying to turn this stupid projector off."

"Wow, you use the projector and everything? I don't even make lessons plans."

"You're still a better teacher than me," Bertholdt mumbles.

Reiner perches on the edge of the desk and uncrosses his arms, grinning. "Aw, Bear. You don't need to fish for compliments. You can have one anytime you like, free of charge. Here, take one."

Bertholdt glances down, brow furrowed. "What—"

"Here's one about your intellect," Reiner says, plucking his hand into the air. He dangles nothing in front of Bertholdt and shows it off. He repeats the motion as he makes a list. "We also stock compliments about your great prowess as a writer of historical fiction, your academic excellence in a top tier graduate program, and your ability to reach things from high places."

"Oh my god, Reiner."

"Or perhaps," Reiner continues, reaching into the air as if opening a cabinet, "the good sir would enjoy a compliment of a sexual nature."

"No—"

Reiner unfolds an invisible card. "This one says: you're such a good lay, that annoying guy from last year's Halloween party is still calling you."

He glances at Bertholdt. "Or is he sending you raunchy videos on Snapchat?"

Bertholdt stares back at him. 

Reiner drops his invisible sales cabinet and grins. "I'm just kidding!"

"Ahaha," Bertholdt says. "You're— god, you're so funny. That's what I like about you."

The projector finally turns off. Even it's embarrassed by his attempt at flirting.

"What're you up to now?" Reiner asks, standing up as Bertholdt tugs his backpack on. "I know I'm gonna see you tonight at practice, but I wanted to ask you this before, just in case I forgot."

Bertholdt sweats. He forgot about volleyball practice. Volleyball practice means Reiner wearing tiny red shorts and a cropped tee-shirt as he bends over in front of Bertholdt, who will be exploding in his pants as he tries to serve the ball. It means Reiner in the locker room afterwards, talking casually about his last Murakami reread as he strips naked. It means Reiner's round ass in the showers. It means going out for drinks with the team afterwards, which means getting drunk and accidentally saying something stupid to Reiner, like _was that a come-on? _or _what kind of dog should we get?_

He has to be cool. He has to— yeah, he's gotta be— like...

"Are you okay?" Reiner asks, peering at him. "You look a little hot."

"Do I?" Bertholdt breathes. He stares into Reiner's wide eyes. Sweet, concerned, baby blues. "It's probably just allergies."

"I don't know. You're sweating."

"Lots of pollen in the air this time of year." 

"You should probably skip practice," Reiner says. "You know, no one will be there anyways, since the competition season is over anyways. You should stay home and get some rest."

He reaches out a hand and rubs Bertholdt's arm, frowning. "Poor Bear."

"I'm fine," Bertholdt croaks. 

"Some extra sleep won't hurt you. I bet you stayed up all night, didn't you?"

"Yeah," Bertholdt says bleakly. "I mean, it was kind of hard to sleep after— after you messaged me..."

"Sorry," Reiner says, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out his phone and pauses to read something. "I know I shouldn't distract you while you're writing."

"Don't worry about it," Bertholdt breathes. "I, uh, appreciated it."

"I can't stay, actually," Reiner says as he glances up from his phone. "I have to be at work in a bit, but listen, I was going to ask if you wanted to get dinner tomorrow night before the reading."

Bertholdt tries to contain his quivering. Dinner with Reiner before a contemporary romance reading, attended by a small crowd in an intimate setting. There will be a dress code. There will be hor d'oeuvres. There will be wine. There will be candlelight. There will be close conversations and shoulders brushing, and Bertholdt can think of several dark corners around campus where two flirty friends might finally confess their feelings and follow it up with some good ole fellatio. 

"You know what those readings are like," Reiner says with a laugh. He slips his phone back into his pocket and adjusts a button on his shirt, grinning at Bertholdt. "They hand out wine like it's going bad, and the canapés are never gluten-free or vegan. I thought it might be fun to do dinner before so we wouldn't be totally wasted by the end of the night, like we always are.

"But you should probably take it easy," Reiner finishes. "You should save your strength for the reading. You know the five of us will be the only people there, and Zeke will give you hell if you don't show up."

"Oh. Right."

Reiner reaches out to pat Bertholdt's cheek. "Get some rest, Bear." 

Bertholdt holds his breath. "Okay." 

"See you tomorrow night," Reiner says as he starts off. He gives a wave, backpack slung over his shoulder, and Bertholdt gets a whiff of his cologne as he goes. He can't tell, actually, if it's cologne or just some particularly excellent smelling sweat, but either way, it's _hot_. He stands at the front of the classroom, quaking inside. His fingers get numb. He can't move. He might erupt. It's all he can think about, the scent of Reiner's skin on top of him, and he bolts out the door before he has to jerk himself off in the faculty bathroom.

Bag dropped at the door, shoes kicked off, Bertholdt collapses into bed the instant he gets home. For a moment, he stares at the ceiling and lets the world spin around him. His skin itches. He resigns himself to the fact that he'll be awake for hours, mesmerized by Reiner's scent, his eyes, the shape of his arms, the warmth in his laughter. He feels his heart beat a little faster, his blood rush a little more. His face gets hot. His stomach flips. He lies still for just another second, worrying, before his body realizes how absolutely fucked exhausted he is, and before he can work up a hard-on, he drops into a dead sleep. 

He wakes in the darkness as if rising from his grave. As if he's a centuries old vampire who was run over by a fleet of trucks and elected to conk out in a coffin for a decade rather than suffer through the pain. As if he just laid flat on his back for four hours and snored so utterly loud that his downstairs neighbor texted him eight times to shut the fuck up. 

Bertholdt stumbles awake, struggling every step of the way. It's already dark outside, and he doesn't bother to turn on any lights as he drags himself out of bed. His body is heavy, tiring to carry, and he has to sit down for five minutes after merely changing into sweatpants. He cooks dinner, and by cooks, he means that he heats up a frozen pizza, leaning lazily against the counter as he watches it in the oven. He passes out for a microsecond, and the pizza starts to burn. He'll clean his oven later. That's a lie to suit a classic depression meal, which he eats sitting on the floor of his cramped apartment, staring at the wall. 

He only gets a few bites in before he sets the pizza side, tired of chewing. Instead, he pulls out his phone. He's groggy and miserable, but mostly he's mad at himself. He can't believe he let Reiner convince him that he's actually sick. Reiner actually asked him to go to dinner before a booze-filled evening of contemporary romance readings, and instead of proclaiming his horny and romantic feelings then and there, Bertholdt looked so ashen and awkward that it was easier to pretend he had a cold. At least Reiner took it well. Wait, Reiner was actually asking him out right? He asked him to go to dinner. Dinner is romantic. And paired with the video, and the innuendo, and the way he looked into Bertholdt's eyes...

Bertholdt opens his messages. Volleyball practice should still be in session. He'll text now to gauge the situation and turn his phone off before Reiner gets a chance to respond. He can't handle an actual conversation right now. His fingers are shaking. He can barely handle sending one damn message. All he can do is trudge back to his bed and start the second season of Fleabag as he nervously types out a message, and even that is a little too on the nose for his predicament. 

** Bertholdt  
** hey sorry about tonight  
i think i'm feeling better though!

He sets his phone aside and leans back into his bed with as sigh. His phone buzzes a moment later, the message showing up in the corner of his computer screen too.

** Reiner **  
aw yay!   
we missed you at practice!   
.jpg 

The photo downloads, and it's a selfie of the volleyball team in the locker room, half of them undressed. Bertholdt frowns. They must have let out early tonight, and judging by the photo, a few other team members are missing. Now he feels bad for skipping practice, but he might have died if he'd had to see Reiner in those spandex shorts tonight. The photo's cute anyways, and it makes him smile until he realizes, oh no, he can see the spandex shorts very clearly in the picture. The camera is tilted down, a perspective angle on Reiner's body, his hips cocked to one side. The curve of his ass is barely visible. But the rest of him— his knees, his thighs. His cock tucked safely into place by a jockstrap beneath his shorts, but Bertholdt can still see it. At least he thinks he can. At least, he can imagine it. 

His right hand is halfway down his pants before he realizes what he's doing. He can't help it. All he knows is that Reiner sent him a totally unsexy photo and he's going to get off on it, whether he assists himself or not. If he sits still, he must just explode. It wouldn't be the first time he's creamed his pants, though it would be the first time in years. Not as many years as he'd like to admit. Then again, that's not the embarrassing part of this scenario. The worst thing is that he thinks he's in love with his best friend, and rather than come to terms with his feelings, he's sulking in his bedroom and masturbating.

"What a creep," Bertholdt mutters to himself before he grabs his cock.

He bites his lip as he begins to stroke himself. He moves slowly, carefully, trying to focus his concentration on the photograph. He blurs out the faces of his other teammates and looks at Reiner, at the sharp line of his jaw and the sparkle of his eyes. The cling of his tee-shirt to his chest, the sweat dripping down his forearms, and the triangle of his hips, narrowing in beneath his tapered waist and fleshing out again at his thighs. Bertholdt traces his eyes down the picture, mouth hanging slightly open as his hand continues working his cock. He uses his free hand to zoom in. He huffs at Reiner's pixelated crotch. He swallows whatever is left of his dignity, lets his head fall back against the pillow, and closes his eyes. 

The locker room was filled with steam. It floated in from the other side of the tiled walls, where water hit the floor in heavy streams as the showers were turned on, one after another. Players stumbled into the waterfalls and sighed as the hot water hit their sore bodies. It had been a hard practice, and the relieving heat and pressure was well-deserved. Two of the showers, however, remained empty; but the locker room was just as hot and heavy as Bertholdt pushed Reiner into the metal lockers and kissed him.

He kissed hard, adrenaline still pumping through his veins. His grip was tight on Reiner's arms as he pinned him the lockers, keeping him captive against the cold metal. It stung Reiner's back, but he didn't care. He lived for it, shivering under Bertholdt's touch. Under Bertholdt's fierce kisses— lips, tongue, and a little bit of teeth, on his mouth, across his jaw, down his neck until Reiner was gasping and writhing beneath his grasp. Bertholdt let his lips linger there, drawing out a red mark on the skin of Reiner's neck. He kissed him until it was purple, and he let go, stepping back just an inch and letting Reiner's arms fall to his side. 

"You liked that?" he asked, cocking his eyebrows as he smirked.

He watched Reiner breathing hard, chest heaving. Bertholdt ran a hand down his bare chest, teasing his skin, as Reiner swallowed and nodded.

"Yes," he murmured. He dropped his chin, closing his eyes. "I liked that." 

Bertholdt pressed a gentle finger on the underside of his chin and forced his gaze back up. He stared at Reiner, watching him with thoughtful eyes and a devilish twinkle. The corner of his lips quirked and he came closer, holding his lips just over Reiner's. 

"You know what else you're going to like?" he whispered.

The heat of his breath touched Reiner's lips and Reiner couldn't help but clench his shoulders, shivering under Bertholdt's touch, though he knew better than to respond. Bertholdt kissed him again, slower but just as fully, their lips coming together in heat, Bertholdt stepping in to press their chests together. Their skin felt electric. Bertholdt pushed against him harder, pressing him against the lockers, fitting his erection into the curve of Reiner's hip. Reiner grinded against him, their spandex shorts sparking with friction as they moved. Bertholdt groaned, tugged on Reiner's lip with his teeth, and when he pulled back, hungry, Reiner knew what to do. He let his hands fall from Bertholdt's shoulder, trail down the muscles of his chest and stomach as he dropped to his knees. 

Bertholdt watched as Reiner leaned into him, pressing his nose against Bertholdt's hips and taking him in— the scent of sweat, adrenaline, desire, yearning for Reiner's touch. He flicked his tongue and stroked it along the bulge in Bertholdt's shorts. Bertholdt bit his lips and gripped at Reiner's short hair. His cock twitched beneath the spandex. Reiner mouthed the bulge, humming in his throat so that Bertholdt could feel, and a moment later he reached up to unroll the shorts, yanking them down Bertholdt's thighs to expose his hard cock. 

Bertholdt held back a moan as Reiner began to work on him, taking him into his mouth with a moment of hesitation. He gripped one hand on the back of Reiner's skull, his wrist loose as he allowed Reiner to move up and down, bobbing along Bertholdt's cock. The heat was intense, incredible, and Bertholdt sucked in a deep breath, shivering at the sight of Reiner taking his full length into his mouth. He felt the steam from the showers fill the air, sweat run down his back, and Reiner's hands grasp at the back of his thighs. Reiner's lips popped as he came up for a second, a trail of spit hanging from his mouth. He glanced up at Bertholdt, a devilish twinkle in his eyes. Bertholdt's cock bristled in the open air, and he clenched his fist on the back of Reiner's head, holding tightly to him.

"What's wrong?" Reiner asked, smirking up at him. He jerked one hand along Bertholdt's shaft, his lips shiny with spit. "I thought you liked it." 

"I'll like it when you finish what you start," Bertholdt muttered. 

Reiner grinned, his hands sliding down Bertholdt's thighs. He grasped Bertholdt's knees and dropped his head back down in one swift motion, taking Bertholdt's cock all the way to its base, his mouth bulging. Bertholdt groaned and clawed at Reiner's short hair, barely hanging on. Reiner kept going, up and down, and Bertholdt's hand began moving in rhythm with his motions, jerking back and forth as Reiner sucked. The heat in the room rose even more, the steam building around them. Bertholdt felt a bead of sweat down his forehead, and he shuddered at the intense feeling of being so deep in Reiner's mouth.

They pushed and pulled together, and after one last good thrust, Reiner pulled off, replacing his mouth with his hand and squeezing Bertholdt until he came. It didn't take much. Bertholdt gasped as the cum landed on Reiner's lips, dripping down onto his chest. Reiner slowed his wrist, and Bertholdt caught himself on the lockers as he collapsed forward, a thrill riding through his body. He dropped his head and let out a deep breath.

He glanced down at Reiner, who sat kneeling between his legs, licking his lips.

"You're lucky I know you so well, Bear," he breathed, smiling up at Bertholdt. He dabbed a spot of cum from his collarbone and smeared it down Bertholdt's thigh. "You could've choked me with a load like that." 

A knock on the door.

Bertholdt freezes. His cock is still in his hand. He glances around his quiet bedroom, as if that's going to tell him who's come to see him on a Friday night. The sound was unmistakable, but it was so soft that he's wondering if he imagined it. Maybe he's finally losing it. Maybe if he ignores it, it'll go away. That's how he deals with most of his problems, although to be fair, it hasn't really worked so far. 

Another knock. Bertholdt swears, jerking upright out of bed. God, he's covered in jizz. But it might be his landlord. Maybe he'll finally have hot water again, and then he can masturbate in the shower like a normal person. He stumbles to the bathroom and washes his hands as fast as humanly possible. He makes sure to pull his shirt down over his suspicious stains of his sweatpants. 

"Coming!" he shouts at a third soft knock. The pun is not lost on him. he hates himself. 

His socks slide on the floor as he dashes to answer the door before his landlord decides to ruin his life even further, and he flings it open, fully prepared to adopt his customer service voice. The fake smile on his face freezes. Reiner stands there, flesh and blood, the hoodie of his college sweatshirt pulled up over his head. A pair of very tight spandex shorts on his body after volleyball practice. Oh _Christ_, he takes the bus home like that?

"Hi," Bertholdt says, breathless. He deflates— not his landlord— and then tenses again— oh God, it's Reiner. 

"Hey, sorry," Reiner says. He grips his gym bag with one hand, the strap slung over his shoulder. In his other hand, he lifts a woven shopping bag. "I hope I didn't wake you up or anything. I just wanted to make sure that you got this."

"What is it?" Bertholdt asks. 

"I brought you soup," Reiner explains. "Since you're not feeling well."

Bertholdt stares at it. "Oh my god."

"Wild rice with vegetables," he continues. "It's just from the store, but I know you never have anything in your pantry. So I figured this was better than nothing."

Bertholdt stares at the bag for a moment. He pushes a hand back through his hair and glances at Reiner, attempting a sexy human smile. "Well, I guess you should come in."

"I can't stay, sorry," Reiner exclaims. He shoves the bag into Bertholdt's hands and fishes into his pocket for his phone. "I just picked up an early shift at the gym tomorrow and I need to cool down after practice. But I'll see you tomorrow night, yeah?"

"Yeah," Bertholdt says. He clears his throat. "I mean, I feel so much better, if you wanted to get dinner after all."

Reiner frowns at something on his phone. "Sorry, Bear, I don't think I'll have time now. I'll have to go home to change after work to make it to the reading, so..."

"Oh yeah, of course. No problem."

Reiner reaches out and claps him on the arm. "Get some sleep! You look exhausted. See you tomorrow."

"See you," Bertholdt says weakly. "I, I'll see you, and I, uh... oh, bye." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [bertholdt rn](https://cdn.vox-cdn.com/thumbor/2q97YCXcLOlkoR2jKKEMQ-wkG9k=/0x0:900x500/1200x800/filters:focal\(378x178:522x322\)/cdn.vox-cdn.com/uploads/chorus_image/image/49493993/this-is-fine.0.jpg)


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertholdt acts boldly, sort of.

"Part of me wonders if I should even be there," Bertholdt muses. "It feels wrong to show up like this, when I'm so unhinged and uncertain. It feels wrong to be around him when I can't even come to terms with my feelings long enough to fully admit them to myself. I feel like I'm using him— his mind, his body, taking it vicariously for my own desires, never brave enough to ask for his permission, to ask if he would share himself with me willingly. There's a violence to that, and some part of me, no matter how small, knows that I like it. That I shouldn't like it."

He turns his gaze to the window. "I'm indulging in fantasies. Lusting after a man who doesn't know that I've touched him, even if it was only in my dreams. But then I see his face, and my heart stirs, and I remember—"

"Didn't he send you a dick pic?" the woman exclaims. 

Bertholdt glances back at her. She quirks her eyebrows as she stares at him, and her expression is made more dramatic by the fact that she's drawn them on half an inch too high, making her look much more interested in his story than she probably is. Her umbrella continues to drip on Bertholdt's shoes as they stare at each other under the flickering bus lights. The night streets spin by as the bus grumbles along, coming to the next stop.

He pauses. "It was a video."

She turns away, rolling her eyes. "Fucking block his ass."

"No, it's kind of romantic, if you think about it."

"If you ask me," she sigh as the bus shudders to a stop, "which you didn't, by the way, before you started going on about whatever the hell that was, he was just looking for a booty call. And instead of getting laid, you wrote a monologue about it. Which you performed, just letting you know, completely unsolicited on a city bus."

Bertholdt purses his lips. The scraggly guy with the flask lounged across the accessible seats gives him a tough love nod. He would love a drink of whatever is in that flask, but he once had a one-night stand without using a condom and spent the next forty-eight hours crying while his STI test results were processed. He should learn to bring his own flask. 

"Wait, are you saying I missed my chance?" Bertholdt asks as the woman heaves herself upright, balancing her weight on her wet umbrella. She starts for the back door, huffing at him. "Should I have asked _him _to dinner?"

She pops open her umbrella and steps off the bus. "I think you should find yourself someone better to talk to. Like a therapist." 

Bertholdt slumps back into his seat as the bus pulls away from the curb, shuttling back into the lanes of Saturday night traffic. Car lights glimmer and reflect off the window, and he stares outside, watching them go by. His stomach reels. He tugs his tie a little looser, and he checks his phone. He could have been at dinner with Reiner tonight, playing footsie under the table of a moderately priced candlelit restaurant, if he hadn't been such an ass yesterday. Instead, he's spent the last few hours bumbling over tie choices before he realized that the only suit he owns is a stolen rental too short in all the wrong places, so he slapped on some fun socks (chalkboard print— a birthday present from Reiner, FUCK) and endured a stomach-lurching bus ride in rush hour traffic. 

On the bright side, he has another opportunity for a romantic night at the reading. He decided, after wasting two hours debating between the four ties that he owns, that he has to be bold with his feelings tonight. He still managed to make the wrong tie choice, but he can get everything else right tonight. If Reiner insists on playing hard to get, then Bertholdt will have to make the moves. He'll be confident. He'll be charming. He'll need some wine first, but he promises his sullen reflection in the bus window that he'll confront his feelings by the end of the night. 

The sidewalk slips with winter rain when Bertholdt stumbles off the bus. By the time he slides his way to the right building, he's nearly soaked through. He lets himself in through a side door, gasping at the warmth and light that greets him, and resists the urge to shake himself off like a dog. He's got a rain jacket, at least, but that doesn't do much good when the rest of him is dripping. He finds the nearest restroom, dabs at his legs with a handful of paper towels, and stares at himself in the mirror. He looks like a stray dog. He sucks it up. He has things to do tonight. The Sirius Black look will just have to do. Who knows, maybe that's the hottest trend of the season. 

To Bertholdt's surprise, the reading room is already crowded when he shows up, just a few minutes past the hour. He tucks his wet jacket under one arm and stares at the people mingling in the crowd. He's never heard of the author reading tonight, which isn't saying much, since he functions mostly as a shut-in. What does say a lot, though, is the certain type of people making up most of the crowd, whom, if he were to judge based on utter stereotype, are A1 lesbians. It's not totally astonishing, once he catches sight of the book cover encased in a poster at the entrance to the party: two women holding swords and eyefucking each other. Yeah, that's hot to anyone. 

The sheer number of people in the crowd is off-putting considering the usual attendance numbers, but he manages to graze through the crowd without offending anyone by his haggard appearance. He sidles up to one waiter after another, plucking niblets off their trays and apologizing under his breath for being _that person_. But listen, if grad students received proper living wages for all the work they did, he would able to afford delivery pizza instead of frozen. He gets sad when he realizes how low his standards are, and he sulks in a corner, shoving glorified bagel bites into his mouth. 

"Hey, you," someone calls to him. 

From beneath a glittering row of string lights, Reiner approaches, smiling at Bertholdt. He glows in the warmth of the intimate room. He's wearing his only suit— the same maroon two-piece that he wears to every single event— but it's as sexy as always, ugh, GOD, hugging his muscles in all the right places as he bounds towards Bertholdt, a bubbling glass of white wine in his hand. His lips are rosy. He looks sweet, Bertholdt thinks. He'd taste like champagne tonight. And berries. Whipped cream, even in the chill of winter.

"Hey," Reiner exclaims. He claps Bertholdt on the shoulder and wraps him into a hug. He's unbelievably warm. Bertholdt, with half a bagel crisp still in his mouth, mumbles something resembling a greeting. 

Reiner pulls back, his hand still gripped on Bertholdt's shoulder, and he grins. "You look good!" 

Bertholdt chokes down his hors d'oeuvre. "So do you!" 

He swallows and smiles. He does his best to look seductive. No, romantic. Considerate. Open to receiving more sexy messages, if that's what Reiner has in mind, or getting married at the courthouse tomorrow. Can they do that on a Sunday? Either way, it's fine with him. He's trying not to shout his feelings from the rooftop like an utter buffoon. He wants to let them come naturally, like a true romantic would.

Reiner beams. "Thanks!"

Bertholdt stares at that smile. He points at Reiner's glass and rasps, "Where's the alcohol?" 

"We'll fix you up," Reiner exclaims. He lets go of Bertholdt's shoulder, but— red alert, his hand slides down Bertholdt's bicep as he turns away, and it lingers there as he searches the crowd for a waiter. "They're just handing them out, but I think the reading's going to start soon. You wanna find the others and get seats?" 

He follows Reiner without hesitation. He hates himself for it a little bit. He hates how much he wants to reach out and take Reiner's hand, or grope his ass, or maybe both at staggered intervals, engaging in an appropriate amount of public affection that two people in a relationship might do. He has to be cool. He shoves the last appetizer into his mouth and manages to scoff it down by the time Reiner procures him a glass of sparkling wine, and then they secure a section of five seats near the front, where they wait for their cohort to arrive. 

Bertholdt glances around the room as the seats begin to fill up with lesbians. "This is a little different than usual."

Reiner, turned halfway around in his chair to scan the room for their classmates, glances back at Bertholdt, smirking. "You should be honored to be here. Historia Reiss is a big deal."

"Clearly."

"I know you hate romance, but just because you haven't heard of her—"

"I don't _hate _romance," Bertholdt exclaims, swallowing a mouthful of wine. "I just think the genre's a little— I don't know. Tropey and self-serving and boring." 

Reiner snorts. "Is that supposed to disprove my point?" 

"Okay, but consider," Bertholdt continues. He turns to fully face Reiner, laying his arm along the backs of their chairs. "You're a romance writer, and I don't hate any of your stuff."

"That's a high compliment, coming from a critic like you."

"But, I mean, you, like, subvert expectations and stuff. I can get behind that."

"You just don't like cliches," Reiner exclaims. He swivels in his seat and leans forward to Bertholdt. "See, you just need to stop making assumptions! I'm going to curate a reading list for you—"

A shadow appears behind Reiner, and he cuts himself off, glancing around to look at Pieck, a member of their cohort who has just emerged from the crowd. She smiles down at them, the hem of her tea-length dress brushing over Reiner's legs. She holds a glass of wine in each hand. Double-fisting like a pro. 

"We're late," Pieck says without preface. "Our attention was absorbed by the musings of the poetry cohort. Marcel was administering a particularly stimulating thought before we were forcibly moved in this direction by our dear program director."

"You look amazing," Reiner exclaims, leaping up from his seat. They kiss each other's cheeks without actually touching— a fine gay art that Bertholdt has yet to master. Maybe he can ask Reiner to teach him. "I hope you're excited for this, because _one of us_ hasn't got anything good to say so far."

"Of course," Pieck says. She glides past them to the open seat beside Bertholdt, holding the wine glasses over her head. "I love a girl who writes erotica." 

Bertholdt takes too long considering if he should try to greet her as elegantly as Reiner did, and then Pieck is in conversation with the scholar sitting in front of them, who turned around to kiss her hand and compliment her in French. The other graduate students fill in the row. Bertholdt gives a quick wave to Annie and Porco, both of whom ignore him. He turns back to Reiner as the lights begin to dim.

"Is this, uh," he asks. He stops, because Reiner leans in to hear him and Bertholdt cannot find the courage to utter the word _erotica _in his presence, lest he admit that he wrote some particularly lovable sex scenes about the two of them dicking each other down. 

"What'd you say?" Reiner whispers, his breath warm. Sweet. Champagne. 

"Nothing," Bertholdt whispers back. "Never mind." 

Polite applause smatters through the crowd as the director of the MFA program takes the stage, wearing an appalling polyester button-down, as usual, and he waves the crowd into silence. Down the row, Bertholdt hears Annie snort and mutter, "He looks pissed." 

He shouldn't be pissed, considering the incredible turnout for tonight's reading, which is the finale of a semester-long series. Then again, this is the first time anyone other than MFA students and their professors have showed up to a reading all semester, so Bertholdt expects their critique with Zeke on Monday morning will be subject to a passive-aggressive rant, full of nostril-flaring and beard-stroking. Bertholdt focuses on his wine as Zeke bores with opening remarks, and then he blinks and finds that he has missed all of them. Perfect.

"So without further ado," Zeke continues, speaking in low poetic tones so close to the microphone that they can hear his spit land when he pop his Ps_, _"it is my privilege and honor to present our guest author for this evening's reading: Historia Reiss." 

Pieck thrusts her wine glasses aside, to Bertholdt on her left and Porco on her right, and sticks her pinky fingers between her lips to whistle loudly as Zeke bows off the stage. Porco meets Bertholdt's eyes and mouths _kiss ass_, to which Bertholdt furrows his brow, because a moment later Pieck is leaning over to collect her wine glass and placing a not-at-all-subtle hand on Porco’s shoulder. He turns nearly as red as his hair. It’s not such a bad idea, actually, Bertholdt muses, sipping his wine as the guest author takes the stage, to get a little cozy during the reading. If they’re going to endure romance tonight, then he might as well use that to his advantage. After all, Reiner must be waiting for him to make a move. He's been dropping hints like crazy, touching Bertholdt's arm, smiling at him, inviting him out, but they've gotten nowhere yet. It's up to Bertholdt now. 

"Thank you for the introduction," the author begins onstage. She is dwarfed by the podium, but somehow her presence is intimidating. She speaks softly, but firmly, and Bertholdt gets the distinct impression that the audience of lesbians would listen to her read the dictionary. "I prefer to let my writing speak for itself, so let's dive in by indulging in one of my favorite scenes from _Millions and Myriads_. In this scene, Christa has just unearthed a devastating family secret, and she takes solace in a letter from her lover faraway."

Bertholdt finishes his glass of sparkling wine. He fakes a yawn, turning his head to one side as he stretches. He slowly lets his arm fall down to settle across the back of Reiner's chair. 

"My dearest kitten," the author reads, "yet again I find myself yearning for the warmth of your touch. To be with your again is my greatest wish; to explore the cave of your desire and drown myself within your walls, rooting my body inside yours."

"Oh my god," Bertholdt mutters, slinking down in his seat. His arm slithers away. He stares, muted, at the blank face of the author onstage as she reads of mewling whimpers and dripping passions. He can't do this. Holy _fuck_, this reading is explicit.

"Shh," Reiner murmurs. He taps a hand on Bertholdt's shoulder to shush him, but he is enraptured by the performance, and his touch lingers for a moment, his attention transfixed.

Bertholdt's face burns. He can feel Reiner next to him, easing into his seat as the reading continues and the lover's letters get considerably more graphic than he was expecting (is this allowed? Those twenty-year-old undergrads are children, for fuck's sake!). Bertholdt at Reiner, who is too captivated to even finish his wine. Dismayed, he sinks a little lower into his seat. This evening isn't exactly going as planned, and if he can't recover from the absolute humiliation of hearing the words _love cave _while sitting so close to the object of all his desires, then he might as well just call it quits.

It's a bit of a mess that he's gotten himself into, and he's beginning to understand why a grand confession of love may not be appropriate at this venue, or at any venue, for that matter. He doesn't know if he can do this without making a fool of himself at all, and that's saying a lot, considering his behavior over the last few days. Maybe he should just forget about it. Maybe Reiner already has. 

Without a word, Pieck hands him her extra wine glass. Bertholdt gladly takes it. 

"Christa's heart pounded as she lowered the page," the author reads. "Her mind echoed all the words her lover had written. She longed for them to be reunite more than anything in the world, and she knew that her lover would stop at nothing to be with her again, had she the choice. It was for this reason that Christa began to cry. For she knew that neither of them had the freedom to decide, and they would be apart forever."

Bertholdt gives a small _mm-hmm _into his wine glass.

"The paper was the only piece of her love left to her now. Christa's tears fell onto the page, and the ink began to run in delicate streams. She knew that it was the closest she would ever be to her love again. The soft paper, held so delicately between her hands, was the only companion she would ever share her heart with again. And though her sadness was great, her desire was greater. Overwhelmed with passion, Christa held the letter against her breast and closed her eyes, something within her body beginning to stir."

Pieck crosses her fingers.

The author draws in a sharp breath and glances over the audience. "We'll end there. I have time for a few questions before the reception."

The questions endured are lengthy and graphic of erotica from several heaving young lesbians who can barely seem to breathe in Historia Reiss' presence as she smiles down on them with her perfectly manicured hands folded over each other on the podium. Bertholdt finishes his second glass of wine, makes immediate plans to acquire a third, and when the Q&A finally finishes, he sits upright in his chair, blinking as if waking from a dream. Or a nightmare, depending on one's orientation.

Reiner claps his hands on his knees and turns to him, a grin spreading across his face. "Well, that was a... graphic scene we just had read to us, wasn't it?"

"Personally," Pieck says with a sigh, "I was hoping for a bit more action with the letter. That would've really had me writing in my seat."

"The paper was the only good character," Annie mutters from the end of the row. She stands and gives them all a departing nod. "Although I could've done without anyone fucking it. I'm getting out of here. I need to get drunker than this reception can allow."

Porco rubs his face and grumbles something unintelligible. Pieck takes a sip of her wine, pats him on the arm, and turns in her seat to face Reiner and Bertholdt, her poofy skirt hanging over the edge of her chair.

"Reiner, you're the only one of us who could get away with submitting erotica for a reading," she says. He sputters, and she continues. "Well, you're the only romance writer in our cohort. Surely your dabble?" 

Bertholdt stares straight ahead. What a lovely empty stage to look at.

"I might have dabbled," Reiner exclaims. He breaks into a nervous laugh. "But I would never— god, could you imagine Zeke's face if I turned in something like that?"

"I rather imagine he would enjoy it."

_"Enjoy it?"_

"Write one sex scene," Pieck begs, or commands. "Do it for me, please."

"I'll write you anything, but I'm not submitting it to critique! That's— way too personal."

"Oh?" she asks. She leans over Bertholdt to peer at Reiner. "Are you afraid of revealing a secret affection through your erotic words?" 

"I'm just saying. There are— _things— _that my classmates, and especially my professor, don't need to know about me."

Pieck leans back with a wicked grin. "Oh, you're kinky as hell."

"Who wants another drink?" Bertholdt exclaims. 

The room fills with excited conversation as the audience breaks from their seats and gathers in the reception space, clamoring to get a minute with Historia Reiss, who mingles among them, moving easily from one conversation to another. Always gracious, always polite, but never too approachable. As he sips a fresh glass of wine, Bertholdt hears only a handful of people stumblingly ask her to read their works, although maybe he shouldn't be surprised. It's apparent that most of the fangirls in the audience are just fans, seeking selfies with their favorite erotica author, not desperate wannabes like the MFA students. Annie was probably right to dip. 

Reiner lingers on the edge of the conversation, hoarding armfuls of canapés to shove in his mouth when Pieck turns around and asks for the hundredth time why he won't just go up to Historia and talk to her. Bertholdt wishes he could encourage Reiner to put himself out there and get noticed, but he's already big depressed tonight. He's not trying to be a hypocrite too. He settles for trailing a step behind Reiner as they circle the room, making small talk with everyone except the guest author, and trying not to get totally wasted on free, cheap wine before the night is over. They should've gone to dinner beforehand so they could've had something real to eat. Oh, wait— he failed miserably on that front too. 

They lose Pieck and Porco in the crowd. After a while, it becomes clear they've disappeared from the reception altogether, leaving Reiner and Bertholdt as the last two MFA students standing, holding down the fort lest a natural disaster occur. Historia's fan club shows no signs of letting up, and Reiner has gotten no closer to inserting himself into the conversation. Bertholdt knows this trick; he's going to wait until the very last minute, and then it'll be too late and she'll be on her way out, but at least he'll have an excuse. Bertholdt finishes another glass of wine instead of saying anything. 

"I can't believe you've never read any of her work," Reiner says for the tenth time. His gaze is still fixated on the author, even from the other side of the room, where they've stopped to sulk like wallflowers. "She's the queen of contemporary WLW romance." 

"I'd never even heard of her before tonight," Bertholdt says, barely containing a hiccup. He leans on his shoulder, facing in towards Reiner, who continues to stare elsewhere. 

"I'm personally offended by that," Reiner says. He gives Bertholdt a quick nervous grin before turning back to Historia. "I'm kidding! You're obviously not a romantic."

"Obviously," Bertholdt says. 

A sudden movement in the crowd sends a ripple through the room, and the cluster begins to split apart. The audience fans out, moving into smaller groups, and Historia's noticeable blonde hair disappears from the crowd. A sudden burst of chatter picks up, and Reiner cranes his neck. 

"Oh, no," he says. "Is she gone?" 

Bertholdt shrugs and takes a sip. He is slightly drunker than he would like to be right now, but Reiner solves that problem by grabbing his wine glass and draining half of it, his gaze never leaving the crowd as he searches for the author. Seconds later, he stops. He turns his head and glances past Bertholdt, his eyes going wide. Bertholdt takes the half-empty wine glass that Reiner is wordlessly pushing at him, and he jerks around. He swears. Someone is standing right at his elbow, wearing an ungodly amount of black leather. Like, literally, he didn't know anyone other than RPG characters wore that much leather. She gives them a once over, her arms crossed, then makes a _tch_.

"What are you two up to?" she asks.

Bertholdt furrows his brow. "Excuse me? Who do you think—"

"We're students in the MFA program," Reiner exclaims. He grabs onto Bertholdt and wheels him around to face the stranger properly. Like a polite adult would. "We're both huge fans of Historia Reiss—"

"I've never read any of her books."

"He would love them if he read them," Reiner continues. "Do you work with her? I just ask because I saw you with her earlier, and I just wanted to—"

The stranger barely contains a sneer. Bertholdt has the feeling that she would punch them both if she wasn't technically on the clock right now. 

"First of all," she says, holding up a finger. "You can address her as Ms. Reiss."

"Of course," Reiner breathes. He squeezes Bertholdt's arm.

She taps a finger on her chest. "I'm her assistant, Ymir. I answer to her for everything, which is why I came over here, to find out why you two are glued to the wall and staring at her like a pair of perverts." 

"We're just huge fans," Reiner gushes. "We're fiction students and I can't imagine being published someday, much less having the kind of success that Ms. Reiss has, and it would be such an honor, you know, if—"

"What do you write?" Ymir asks.

Reiner swallows. "Romance."

She glances at his outfit. "Gay romance?" 

"...Yes. You know, I always carry a manuscript with me—"

"Do the gays die in the end?" Ymir asks.

He stops. "What?"

"Do the gays die in the end?" Ymir repeats. She crosses her arms even harder. "Historia isn't interested in reading manuscripts that make love to homophobic tropes."

"Well," Reiner says. "Everybody dies eventually."

"Stop talking." She turns to Bertholdt. "What do you write?"

"Uh," he says, always a great start when pitching a novel. "Historical fiction, mainly."

She turns on her heel and leaves without another word. 

Bertholdt blinks. "That could've gone better."

"All of my writing is about gays dying," Reiner says, staring after her. He glances at Bertholdt, his face slowly contorting into a look of horror. "Why do I only write about gays dying?"

"Um," Bertholdt says. "Do you want me to answer that?"

Reiner demolishes the last canapé in his hand and shakes his head, chewing ferociously. "No. Let's get out of here. Let's go get drunk. Even drunker. Wherever."

"We could go to my place," Bertholdt says without realizing it.

As Reiner nods and says they should get their coat, Bertholdt sinks further into his self-pity spiral. He can't bring Reiner back to his place. He just spent the entire night being miserable and friendzoning himself, instead of making a move like he originally intended, and now he's going to— what? Bring Reiner back to his place and get drunk with him? Confess his feelings there? Because that wouldn't be weird or creepy or assuming at all? If Reiner hasn't said anything, not about the video, or the dinner, or anything else, then maybe it's time for Bertholdt to accept that it's because he doesn't want to bring it up. Maybe it's better that way, for both of them. 

"I have to pee," Bertholdt says. He finishes his wine. "I'll be back in a second."

He gets lost on his way to the restroom, but in his defense, wine hits different when you're depressed. He finds his way there eventually, and he steps inside, rubbing his tired eyes. He wonders how he can get out of going home with Reiner. How longer he can live like this until he's over it, because it's hard to hang out with his best friend when all he wants to do is bang him. 

He steps inside and stops. The small, blonde Historia Reiss is leaning over the sink, fixing her hair in the mirror. He can't pretend that he walked into the wrong restroom and avoid this moment altogether, because the student government spent their entire budget last year campaigning for gender neutral bathrooms on campus. He could pretend that he is part of the wall, or if he was a normal person, he could just walk past her and mind his own damn business in the toilet. 

Historia glances up in the mirror. They make eye contact, and Bertholdt decides to grovel.

"I promise I'm not being weird," he says, even though he is. "I didn't follow you in here or anything, but my friend and I are both MFA students, and he's such a big fan of yours—"

"I don't read student manuscripts," she says shortly. She turns her attention back to her hair, picking out a precise part in her blonde locks. "I'm sorry, but you can tell your friend that I'll be happy to talk to him at the reception. Not in the bathroom."

"That makes sense," Bertholdt says. "Of course you don't. That'd be so stupid."

She glances over her shoulder, her brow furrowed. "Is that supposed to be facetious?"

"No," Bertholdt says. "I'm just drunk. And everything I write sucks."

Historia turns around, her dress twirling around her knees as she cocks her head and looks at him. She is terrifying up close, he realizes, and he wishes Annie had stayed at the reading longer so he could've watched them compete for a title.

"What was the last you wrote?" she asks. 

"Bad," he says instantly.

She leans back against the sink. "No, really. What was it?"

Bertholdt stares at her. "You can't tell him."

"Tell who?"

"My friend."

"The one who's a fan?"

"Yes."

"Alright, I won't." She crosses her arms and gives him a look. "What was it?"

He stares at her. "I wrote erotica about my best friend."

"Is it any good?" 

He thinks about it. He mutters, "No."

"You're not selling yourself very well," Historia says. She purses her lips. "No one has any reason to take you seriously except for how hard you push for yourself. You're the only person who's going to fight for your work, and you should know that by now."

"Sorry," Bertholdt says. He pinches his forehead. "I'm really just fighting for my friend here. He's a romance writer, and I don't know, I think he deserves a chance."

Historia examines him. Her eyes narrow slightly, and blonde hair spills over her shoulders as she moves her head, turning from one side to the other. "What kind of erotica was it? Let me guess: sex pollen."

In hindsight, that's what he wishes he had written.

"Sure," Bertholdt slurs.

She grins, a terrifying smile. "Oh, I see. It was true to life. Does he know that you want to fuck him?"

"No!" Bertholdt exclaims. Heat rushes to his face. "God, _no_, I couldn't— I can't tell him."

"You should let him read it," she says with a smirk. "He might like it." 

She slides past him to the door. She sets a hand on his arm as she passes and gives him a cordial _nice to meet you_, before stepping outside. She leaves the bathroom door swinging in her wake. Bertholdt looks up slowly, meeting his own eyes in the mirror. He stares at the bags under his eyes. He can't think of anything to say. Part of him wants to drop dead on the floor and rot until he's found next week, but he really does have to pee and Reiner is waiting for him. He'll just say that he's sick or something. He can't have Reiner over because he's feeling faint and feverish and like he's about to die. There, that's not even a lie!

When he returns to the reception, the crowd has considerably thinned out. The event is running over time, and the staff has long since run out of food, so Bertholdt is surprised to see anyone other than Reiner still hanging around. Even Zeke has dipped, and he was in charge. Bertholdt realizes, as he approaches the center of the room, that people are still there because Historia Reiss is still there. She is, in fact, shaking Reiner's hand.

"Is this your friend?" Historia asks as Bertholdt speedwalks towards them.

He glances at Reiner, who— THANK GOD— is too starstruck to notice Historia's suggestive smirk to Bertholdt. He gawks, holding onto her hand and mouthing silently, like he's trying to blubber admiration without bursting into tears. Bertholdt nods sharply. 

Historia gives Reiner a look up and down, glances at Bertholdt, and nods. "You two could do worse."

Her assistant towers behind her, arms still crossed. Frankly, she looks more like a bodyguard than anything else. She narrows her eyes, glancing between Reiner and Bertholdt. "These two couldn't even fit into a bed together."

"I'm such a big fan of yours," Reiner exclaims suddenly. He blinks wildly, coming out of his stunned stupor, and he clasps Historia's hand in his grasp. "Ms. Reiss, it's such a wonderful honor to meet you and just to be in your presence, honestly, you're such a great writer and I love everything that you do and I just want to say one more thing—"

"Okay," she says, writhing her hand out of his grasp. "I don't read student manuscripts."

She glances over her shoulder and gives Ymir an imperceptible look, at least to Bertholdt. Ymir seems to understand it, because she reaches into the folds of her leather jacket and produces something small and shiny. She passes it to Historia, who takes it between two fingers, like it's a cigarette. Bertholdt recognizes it with a start. Historia's business card. Tiny, trimmed with gold foil, and a precious gesture. Reiner takes it with trembling hands. 

"Don't send me anything until you're sure," she says. "Then we'll talk."

Her gaze slides to Bertholdt. "You did a much better job of pitching his writing than yours. But you can hop on of that offer too, if you promise to include a certain sex scene."

Bertholdt balks and sputters, especially when Ymir snaps her teeth at him before they leave. Reiner, on the other hand, begins to convulse. He turns to Bertholdt and holds up the tiny business card. It shakes like a leaf in his hands. 

"Oh my god," he breathes. "Look at this. Look at this!" 

Objectively— and they both know it— the gesture is hypothetical. Historia didn't promise to read anything he sends, or even respond to him. Her words were hugely ambiguous, and though she's a famous author, she's not an agent, not an editor, not a publisher. Her word is only as good as her reputation in a few years' time. They both know that. Still, Reiner is beaming. And after all Bertholdt has virtually put him through in the last few days, he can't help but smile too.

"You deserve it," he says, because Reiner does. "She's lucky she recognized you before someone else did."

Reiner doesn't stop smiling, but something changes in his eyes as he lowers the business card, looking at Bertholdt. "I didn't even pitch anything to her. I was too scared to introduce myself to her. You did this for me."

Bertholdt flushes. "Well, I just..."

"I don't know what I did to deserve you," Reiner exclaims. He smiles, pressing his lips together, his brow tightly knit, and he reaches out to squeeze Bertholdt's arm. "You're the best goddamn friend in the world."

"Friends!" Bertholdt exclaims. He barks out a short laugh. "That's what we are."

Reiner grins, holding back giddy laughter. "Yeah, Bear. We're friends. How much champagne did you have? Quick, what year is it?"

Bertholdt glances down, his feet shuffling. The grin doesn't leave his face, but his stomach is reeling, and he scratches at his temple, before clearing his throat and looking up again.

"It's just," he starts. "Okay, this is weird."

"Okay," Reiner says, still smiling. "What?"

"You sent me a dick pic on Thursday," Bertholdt says.

Reiner blinks at him. "What?"

"When I say dick pic," Bertholdt continues, shoving his hands in his suit pockets, "I mean, it was, like, a Snapchat video."

"A video?"

"...yeah."

"Of what?" Reiner asks.

Bertholdt glances away, lips pursed together. He hears a small _oh_, and when he looks back up, Reiner has gone pale.

"Oh my god," Reiner mutters. He stares at Bertholdt. "Wait, Thursday?"

"Yeah."

"Oh my god." Reiner claps a hand over his mouth, still staring. He meets Bertholdt's eyes for a moment of absolute silence. Then he sputters. He cracks into a grin and presses his knuckles to his lips, his face going up in pink flames. "That's so weird. I'm so sorry."

Bertholdt looks away. "Yeah, it's, you know..."

"I'm so sorry. That wasn't— that wasn't, like, a come on or anything! Oh my god."

"No, it's fine. I just, like, didn't really know what to say? But, uh—"

"There's a guy," Reiner says.

Suddenly, Bertholdt feels the champagne.

"I haven't told you about him, because— I don't know, we were just hooking up on the side. It wasn't really a big deal. But now, I guess we're kind of a thing? And so that was— yeah, that was for him. I was wondering why he never replied."

Reiner lets out a shaky breath, his eyes getting wide for a moment, and he shakes his head. He glances up at Bertholdt, nervously grinning. "I totally didn't mean to send that to you, dude. I'm so sorry."

"No, dude," Bertholdt mutters. He glances down. "It's all good."

"I can't believe I, like— sent you a video of me jacking off?" Reiner exclaims. He laughs again, covering his mouth with his hand. "Were you just not going to say anything? Just pretend that you didn't see anything?"

"Yeah. I mean, I barely saw anything."

"If I remember correctly," Reiner starts, then cuts himself off. He purses his lips. "Sorry. That's so weird. Is it an excuse if I say I was drunk? His name is right next to yours."

"It's fine," Bertholdt says. "I always do stupid things when I'm drunk."

He glances around the reception. The crowds have nearly emptied out now, and the staff are beginning to clear the chairs. A group of stragglers stands by the door, chatting at they tie their scarves and button their coats. He clears his throat.

"Actually," he says, "I think I'm just gonna go to bed. I wasn't feeling great yesterday, so..."

"Oh, yeah, sorry," Reiner exclaims. He tucks the business card into one of his pockets and frowns at Bertholdt. "Don't push yourself or anything. Feel better, okay? I'll see you on Monday."

"See you on Monday," Bertholdt mutters.


	4. four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertholdt's day takes an unexpected turn.

Not to be dramatic, but— Bertholdt Hoover is the biggest clown on the planet. A fool. A joker. A jester. A complete and utter loon. 

Why would Reiner have feelings for him? Him, of all people? 

The rest of Bertholdt's weekend passes slowly. Uneventfully, unbearably. But eventually, it passes. He knows that everything else will too, even the unbelievable audacity he had when he drunkenly admitted that he had watched the video that Reiner accidentally sent him. It will all pass, but maybe not until he's dead, which is why Bertholdt throws himself the world's biggest pity party on Sunday as he mopes around his apartment. It's a real multitasking event. He's sorry for himself, disgusted at himself, and also content with the knowledge that his flight from society is only a matter of time now that he's made an enormous ass of himself. He indulges his bank account in an absurd amount of takeout that he only gets halfway through, before he drops onto the floor of his bedroom and stares at the ceiling for the rest of the night. 

He doesn't know what he was thinking. He doesn't know how he got so deep in such a particularly erotic rabbit hole, believing that Reiner had sent him the video on purpose, mistaking Reiner's usual friendly affections for flirtations, and having the unbelievable audacity to think that Reiner was into him. Genuinely, like he actually though, deep down, like, _seriously_, that Reiner wanted him. Physically. Sexually. Romantically. He thought Reiner was just playing hard to get. He thought Reiner was teasing him. 

Turns out, he's just an idiot.

The Monday morning queue is out the door of the campus coffee shop when Bertholdt slides a handful of crumpled dollar bills across the counter to the barista. He sighs.

"Black coffee," he says. "I don't deserve anything else."

"Shit," the barista mutters. The cash drawer pops open. "You can't start my week like that." 

He takes his change. "I'm serving penance. I've done a terrible thing."

"I don't need a fucking sob story. Next!"

It all makes sense, in hindsight. It's made sense this whole time, if Bertholdt hadn't been too foolish to see the truth. Reiner's been absentminded lately. Cheerful, flustered, with a kick in his step. Always on his phone, always running late. It makes sense. It's someone else. 

The worst part is that he still has to go to class. He should be in jail, or on his way to begin a new life as a hermit, but somehow, he is reporting for his fiction critique on a rainy Monday with his black coffee. He will sit next to Reiner, who he will hope has forgotten about the whole thing, and he will hand out his half-assed critiques that he wrote last night in a panic-induced half-sleep. He will go home and grade papers and eat lunch and die one day. It sucks. It just sucks, and there's nothing he can do except hope that it will pass.

But he does delete Snapchat. 

Bertholdt gets distracted by the rain. He stands on the landing of the staircase and stares out the window, watching the people pass below as raindrops pelt down on their umbrellas. All their lives, all their choices— how many of them have fallen in love with their best friend? He takes a sip of his coffee. He gags. It's cold. He's gone into a coma on the staircase, and now he's going to be late for class. 

"Sorry," he exclaims when he stumbles into the seminar room. Every time, he forgets that apologies are forbidden in Zeke's classroom, because they're supposed to own their mistakes and whatever. He has to purse his lips together to keep himself from apologizing again as the door slams behind him. "I wasn't watching the time." 

The heat kicks on. The pipes in the ceiling begin shrieking. The seminar room is supposed to be uncomfortably small, to force honest participation through confrontation. Or at least that's the excuse Bertholdt has invented in his head, because otherwise the room is just a fire hazard. One round table, a chalkboard, and industrial overhead lighting, all squeezed between three paper walls and one window that's been painted shut since the seventies. Every other day, there is a dance appreciation class above them, and the ceiling shakes so hard they leave with asbestos in their hair. Bertholdt shuffles inside with his cup of cold coffee, having interrupted whatever weird morning rant Zeke was embarking on. He squeezes behind Pieck and Porco, his backpack scraping against the wall. He drops into his seat next to Reiner and glances up. 

"Sorry for saying sorry," Bertholdt says when the room remains quiet. He pulls out his laptop and navigates to the critique forum. 

"Nice of you to join us," Zeke says from the other side of the table. He leans back in his chair, feet up on the desk, and nods at Bertholdt. "I see you had time to get coffee."

Bertholdt considers throwing it at him. "Sorry. It won't happen again."

"It will," Zeke says. He glances down at the table. Five printed works lay in front of him, fanned out beside his laptop. He carefully selects one and holds it up to the light. "I was going to begin our week with an enlightening discussion about the reading we attended on Saturday night, but since you're here, I'd like to skip to our critique." 

Not a particularly good sign, especially when Bertholdt remembers the crap he submitted last week in his panic. He clicks over to Google Docs and finds his bullshit submission. Ah, yes, it's still garbage. He grimaces. It might literally be the worst thing he's ever written, just some half-assed idea from last summer that he kept around for the emergency situation of having nothing else to submit for a critique. He'll have to come up with another backup now. It seems like Zeke is _itching _to tear him apart, but honestly— Bertholdt deserves it.

Zeke flips through Bertholdt's pages. "By the way, your submission is under the word count."

Bertholdt glances up. "Oh. I didn't think— I mean, just barely."

"Is that so?" Zeke asks. He drops his feet from the table and swivels his chair to face them, the fluorescent lights glinting off his glasses. "Then I think you forgot to submit some the rest of it." 

"Terrific," Bertholdt mutters under his breath. He checks his word count. "I have 9k here, so I guess maybe—"

"I only have eleven pages. Some 2,500 words."

"Oh." Bertholdt frowns. He furrows his brow. "Well, I don't—"

"I almost gave you a zero for the week," Zeke continues. He flips back to the first page, nodding slowly. "But I have to admit, you hooked me with this one. I'm curious about the direction you took. Very different from your usual trivial work."

Bertholdt stares at him. "What?"

He's only partially offended that Zeke believes his writing is trivial; it's true, but that doesn't mean he needs to say it. He's confused, mostly, because he's only had half a cup of cold coffee and he has no idea what the hell his professor is talking about.

On Zeke's other side, Porco suddenly shifts in his chair. He clears his throat and glances up from his laptop, but just enough to dart his eyes across the table to Bertholdt before he turns his gaze back down. "Can we just, like, say it?"

Next to Bertholdt, Annie snorts. "You first." 

Porco glowers, his face scrunched up, before he spits it out. "Okay, fine, me first! I'm all for creative liberties, but for the love of God, can you guys keep your weird roleplay shit out of this class?"

Bertholdt glances around. "I'm... what the hell—"

"Okay," Reiner says.

He cuts Bertholdt off, speaking for the first time since his arrival. He hesitates, his gaze fixated on his computer screen, and as Bertholdt watches him squirm awkwardly in his chair, he gets the distinct feeling that he is missing something very important.

"I just feel like," Reiner continues without looking up, "um, I feel like I should make a disclaimer..."

He trails off. Bertholdt frowns, glancing over at him, but Reiner doesn't look back. He focuses on his laptop, eyes fixed, lips pursed. Bertholdt glances down at his screen. It's open to Bertholdt's submission for the critique. The erotica that Bertholdt submitted to the critique. The erotica that he wrote about him and Reiner, and accidentally submitted to the critique. 

The erotica that he wrote about him and Reiner, accidentally submitted to the critique, that has now been read by every single person in this room.

"Uh," Bertholdt says. He feels Reiner glance at him. "_Uh."_

"I was going to ask," he hears Reiner whisper. "But I didn't get to any of the readings until late last night, and I kind of thought I was hallucinating when I opened this—"

"I have to go," Bertholdt exclaims. 

Zeke pulls out a pen. "We're just getting started. Who wants to open?" 

"I'm in utter adoration," Pieck breathes. She spreads her pages out. "I'd love to delve into the details of the erotica, if I have the consent of the room."

"No, I have to go," Bertholdt repeats. He jerks upright. His chair squeals against the floor, and he shoves his laptop into his bag. "I have to go to the registrar and drop out of school. And then I think I'll jump off the roof of this building." 

He squeezes past his classmates in their seats, the walls of the tiny room closing in on him. Getting smaller and smaller, until he is barely aware of anything else, except for Annie's mumbled, "Do a backflip," and the squeal of a chair as Reiner stands and shouts," Bear, wait!" 

Suffice to say, Bertholdt panics. 

He trips over his feet as he bursts out of the classroom, his heart pounding. He squints in the sudden brightness of the hallway. He blinks, remembers that he is on his way to drop out of school and society, and he makes a sharp turn to speed-walk down the corridor and away from all of his problems. He would run if he didn't think his lungs might collapse and Reiner would find him paralyzed on the floor— it's fine. This is fine. He's fine. His heart is beating so fast that he can't feel it anymore, but that's fine. Or at least, it will be, if he can pretend like it is long enough to get out of this building so he can have his breakdown somewhere else before he is arrested for sending porn to his classmates, and when that happens, at least he'll know that he can comfortably spend the rest of his life in a cinderblock cell, which is all that he deserves really, because if he admits that _he is not fine_, then he has to admit that he has no fucking clue what to do next.

He thunders down the stairs. Sweating. Hoping everyone he knows spontaneously experiences sudden memory loss. 

"Bear," he hears Reiner call from the top of the stairwell. His voice echoes down, and Bertholdt quickens his step. Oh god, oh fuck, he can't look Reiner in the eye ever again—

Reiner's voice echoes behind him as Bertholdt leaps down the last step onto the landing, and then he is out the front door, the wooden bones of the English building creaking as the heavy door slams in its frame. He doesn't realize that it's still raining until he races off the front step and— _squelch_— his shoe sinks ankle-deep into a puddle of cold water. Bertholdt winces, a shiver running through him. He picks up his foot and drags himself onto the sidewalk, the rain pelting down his face in thick drops. He can barely see the headlights on the passing cars. Well, there are worse things, like telling everyone in your class that you masturbate thinking about your best friend—

"Bear," Reiner shouts from the front door. "Bertholdt, just wait!" 

Bertholdt's shoes catch on the sidewalk at the sound of his full name, and he stops. Heart pounding, he turns around. He almost bolts when he sees Reiner rushing down the stairs, flushed, holding eleven pages that have been stapled together and curiously annotated.

He feels himself go cold, and not from the rain. "Did you print it out?!"

Reiner stops just before him, breathing hard. He glances down at the papers as the rain soaks through them, the ink bleeding between the lines. "I always print things out."

"Oh my _god_."

The pages curl in Reiner's hand as he holds them up, his face pink. "Did you submit this on purpose, or—?"

"No," Bertholdt exclaims. He wipes his hair back, blinking away raindrops. "Oh my god, Reiner, please tell me you didn't read it."

Reiner lowers the papers. "I read all of it."

"Oh my god." 

"Sorry, but I mean, you submitted it for critique, so I read it."

"Why didn't you stop?" Bertholdt squawks. His breath comes in a white fog, and though he shivers, he can feel his face flaming red. He presses a hand over his eyes and cringes. "Why wouldn't you stop reading when you realized what it was?" 

"I don't know. I thought—"

"It's just a stupid fantasy," Bertholdt exclaims. He wipes his face with the back of his hand and looks anywhere but at Reiner. The rain continues to pound. "It's just, like, stupid erotica bullshit, okay? I didn't mean for anyone to ever see it. I don't even know why I wrote it. It doesn't mean anything. Please don't read anything into it." 

"Oh."

Thunder rumbles in the distance. Bertholdt glances up, peering through the rain at Reiner, who flicks a finger over the staple in the soaked pages. He shuffles his feet. 

"I thought," he says without looking up, "you know, maybe..."

Bertholdt stares at him. "What?"

"I thought you wanted me to read it." 

A shiver runs through him. "Why would I—"

"Can we go inside?" Reiner asks, glancing up at him. His shirt is soaked through, and he squints at Bertholdt through the rain, the pages melting in his hands. "It's freezing out here." 

"I'm not going back to class," Bertholdt exclaims. "I can't believe I— oh my _god_, I can't ever show my face in there again. Look, just— just forget about it and I'll go home and—"

Bertholdt's shoes squelch with water when Reiner grabs him around the wrist and drags him back up the steps of the building to the covered safety of the front porch. He forgets how strong Reiner is sometimes, with how softly he speaks and how gently he smiles. But his grip is firm on Bertholdt's arm, and he yanks Bertholdt up the steps, nearly throwing him against the wall. He's so built. Oh fuck, this is how he got into this mess in the first place. NOT NOW, BERTHOLDT! 

Dripping, he wipes his face clean from the rain and blinks at Reiner, who stands across from him, staring down at the ruined pages of the erotica. 

"Look," Reiner says, glancing up. His cheeks flush pink when he makes eye contact with Bertholdt. His hair is dripping, beads of rain running down his jawline. "I thought maybe— I don't know, I guess this is stupid. I thought you turned this in as a come on or something."

He glances down again. "I guess I was reading too much into it. Literally. It just seemed, you know, too coincidental. Although now that I think about it, it would be for you to flirt with me by submitting this to the entire class." 

He folds the wet papers in half and clears his throat. "But it was just a stupid fantasy, like you said. That's it."

Bertholdt's heartbeat echoes in his head. He stares in stupefied silence as Reiner continues to mumble to himself, before he breaks into an awkward laugh and creases the fold in the paper. Bertholdt furrows his brow.

"I thought," he starts slowly. He stops when Reiner glances up at him, big baby blues, eyelashes wet with rain. "I mean, you told me about that guy at the reading. I thought..."

"Oh," Reiner says. He purses his lips and shrugs. "No, that's... It doesn't matter. We're not a thing."

"You said—"

"I know what I said," he exclaims. He fidgets with the paper. "I was just getting ahead of myself. You know what I'm like. A guy gives me the slightest amount of attention and I think I'm in love with him."

He coughs. "No, that guy's an asshole. Not that good in bed, either."

Bertholdt glances away, swallowing the lump in his throat. He'd love to be at home in bed right now, weeping and reading poetry and feeling sorry for himself. Staring at the ceiling with a hand thrown back over his brow and wondering who he can booty call just to have them come over and leave within thirty minutes because he won't stop crying. After a moment, he pushes a hand back through his hair, trying to wring it out, and he says, "Well, look, if you never want to talk about any of this again, that's fine with me."

"Yeah," Reiner says, glancing away he nods. "Probably for the best."

"Yeah. So..."

"I was going to text you though," Reiner says abruptly. He turns his gaze back to Bertholdt, unfolding the wet papers. "To ask you, like, what the hell, but I just didn't really know what to say. When I woke up this morning, I was really convinced that I'd dreamt about reading this, but then I got to class and everyone else had read it, so obviously not."

"I can't believe everyone read it," Bertholdt breathes. He runs a hand over his face and pinches his brow. "I can't believe my professor read it." 

"It's not _that _bad."

"Yes, it is."

"It's just self-indulgent. And you made me look like a total airhead."

"Well," Bertholdt says, peeking out from behind his hand. "That's just— you know, that's part of the genre."

Reiner frowns at him. "Okay, you can't complain about romance being tropey and then turn around and write a demanding fantasy like this. You're creating irresponsible standards. That was my main critique, actually."

"Oh my god, Reiner, I don't actually need a critique."

"I'm just saying, don't be disappointed when your breathless ingénue doesn't have a six pack."

"It's porn," Bertholdt exclaims, throwing his hand out. The cold air strikes him and he shivers, his teeth chattering. "Like, I know you don't have a six pack, I see you naked in the locker room all the time, but it's just porn for porn's sake. It's not supposed to be a trope-defying piece of literature." 

He cuts himself off, tense, dizzy, and looks at Reiner, whose eyes have gone wide. Somewhere in the building, a class lets outs; footsteps begin rumbling over the sound of the rain, and Reiner leaps back just as the front door springs open, a well of students stumbling out into the bad weather, textbooks and sweaters over their heads for makeshift umbrellas. Their laughter and shrieks burst between Reiner and Bertholdt, who stand on opposite sides of the front door, staring at each other, soaked, as the undergraduates pass between them. The stream begins to slow, the class emptying out, and as Bertholdt is considering disappearing into the crowd and slinking back home, suddenly the wave of students is gone and silence overtakes them again, nothing but the rain echoing around them.

From across the step, Reiner is staring at him. "You watch me in the locker room?"

Bertholdt flushes. "That's not what I said!"

"That's basically what you said."

"I said I've seen you naked. There's a difference." 

"Have you ever looked at me?" Reiner asks. He speaks low, and his words are barely audible over the pounding rain. But he steps forward, past the door, until he's standing just before Bertholdt. His face is blank except for the light in his eyes, and Bertholdt's stomach clenches. That look means something is going on inside Reiner's head, and it's usually followed by a brilliant stroke of inspiration that leads to three thousand words of his current project. But now, he just stands, staring.

"I mean," Bertholdt squeaks. He barely contains a shiver. "You do have a nice ass."

"You don't have to look at me naked to know I have a nice ass," Reiner says. "Have you ever looked at me naked?"

"Reiner, oh my god," Bertholdt breathes, glancing away, his teeth chattering. "I'm sorry that I wrote porn about us and I made everyone read it, but we really don't have to—"

"I've looked at you," Reiner says. "If that helps."

Bertholdt hesitates. His gaze darts back to Reiner. "No, you haven't."

"I definitely have. And not to be That Gay Guy, but you have a huge cock."

"Oh my god, you can't just say _cock _like that—"

"Why? Haven't you looked at mine?" 

"No," Bertholdt exclaims, cringing. He pinches the bridge of his nose, shrinking into his shoulders as his heart pounds. "I mean, maybe once or twice, but honestly, so help me God? I didn't think about you like this at all until last week when you sent me that video of you jacking off and I thought it was meant for me and I just— the thought that you wanted me was so _hot _and I couldn't help myself and I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since, so that's why—"

He stops, lips pursed to keep himself from literally throwing up, and gestures at the floppy papers in Reiner's hand. "That's it. That's why I wrote it." 

Reiner gets quiet. The rain continues to pour. On the street, a city bus passes, its engine wheezing. Its headlights reflect off the puddle they've created on the front step. Bertholdt watches the dim reflection, because he thinks if he looks at Reiner right now, he might never be able to look at him again without remembering his face in this moment. His eyes bright and a little narrow. The curves of his lips turned down. The tension in his jawline. Then another moment passes, and Reiner makes a noise so small and curious that Bertholdt can't help but glance up at him. Different now, how softly he blinks, how softly he speaks. 

"You should have told me," is all he says. 

Bertholdt watches him.

"I know it's awkward," Reiner continues, one hand trailing off the crumbling crease of the folded papers. "But if you had told me that you were into me— I would... reciprocate, I guess is the right word."

"You're not," Bertholdt starts. He trails off, his heart going quiet. The world around him going still. "You're not totally weirded out?"

"I'm not saying it wasn't a little weird to find out that you wrote porn about us. Or that you submitted it to our entire class. I'm just saying, if you had told me, instead of this, we could've done, like... a collab."

Reiner fidgets, glancing down at the papers. He continues running his hand along the fold, the crease growing deeper and deeper as the papers continue to crumble. Bertholdt furrows his brow, watching him. It clicks. 

"Wait," he exclaims, blood rushing to his face, "Did you—?"

"You're the one who wrote it," Reiner says, glancing up. His face flushes red. "And I just— it was like you said, just thinking that you wanted me to see this, and like, get off on it. I couldn't help myself."

"Oh my god."

"It felt weirder not to masturbate to it."

"So, when you say _collab_, what you mean is—"

"I mean, you should have told me when you wrote this," Reiner breathes. "You could've had me instead."

Bertholdt feels himself blush. A genuine, bright pink, schoolgirl blush. "Oh." 

"I would've said yes," Reiner continues. "I realized, when I read this— I wanted it to be you. I wanted more. I _want _more. So, if you mean it, that you do think of me like that, then that's what I'm trying to say. That I do too."

He looks into Bertholdt's eyes. "I want you. That's what I've been trying to say."

"Oh," Bertholdt breathes. He blinks, and suddenly the world is brighter. "Then I want you too."

The light in Reiner's eyes blooms. "Really?"

"Yes," Bertholdt stutters. "Why did you think I wrote porn about us?"

"I don't know," Reiner exclaims, throwing his hands out. "I wanted that to be true, but I was worried that you just wanted to fuck me and I got sad and— I guess that's what you were probably thinking about the video I sent you, so— maybe I should have just said something—"

"I should've said something! I should've gotten over myself and just told you—"

"We got here in the end! Can we—"

"God, yes," Bertholdt breathes. 

In an instant, Reiner has him against the wall. They fumble at each other, fingers grasping for wet shirt collars, and just as Bertholdt is bending down, Reiner pushes up and kisses him. He slides a hand around the back of Bertholdt's neck, and their lips come together, heat flaring up in their bodies as they clamber for each other. Eyes closed, faces flushed, they grapple, their lips moving in time. Bertholdt shivers from the rain, but Reiner's touch sends warmth flooding through his body. He feels like he's dreaming as they kiss, but for once, he knows that he is not. This isn't something he's made up in his mind. This is real, and Reiner is kissing him on the front steps of the English building. 

Bertholdt cups a hand around Reiner's jaw. He hums into the kiss, fingers trembling over his damp skin. He feels Reiner beginning to melt in his touch, knees buckling against Bertholdt's legs, stumbling into Bertholdt's arms to hold himself upright; Bertholdt catches him, arm around his waist, and he pushes forward to whirl them around until Reiner is the one with his back to the wall. Reiner hums, his eyes opening in surprise, one of his hands clutching at Bertholdt's shirt collar. They break for just a moment, each of them breathing hard. Reiner's hand is laced in his wet hair, and Bertholdt can't wait a second longer. He kisses Reiner again, feverishly, ferociously, their bodies writhing against the wall. He wonders how long they've been waiting for this. He's only been fantasizing about Reiner for a few days, but how long has he been secretly pining beneath the surface? How long has he been lusting without even realizing it? How long has Reiner wanted him too? 

Reiner clenches his shoulder and grinds their hips together. Bertholdt moans against his lips. He hadn't even realized that he was getting hard, but the cold and the heat are coursing through his body, and Reiner's shirt is soaked through to his nipples, and he is aching and it's all he can do not to—

"Wait," Bertholdt gasps, pulling upright. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand. "Reiner, we're in public."

"I know," Reiner mutters. Pushed back against the wall, he smirks, his hair mussed. "Hot, right?"

"We're probably on camera right now!"

"You would like that," Reiner says. He makes a shushing sound before Bertholdt can protest (or fathom the idea of a sex tape, oh fuck) and leans forward, pulling himself off the wall with his hands on Bertholdt's shoulders. "Come on, I know somewhere better." 

He thinks that might mean going back one of their places— you know, where normal people have sex— but Bertholdt is still not necessarily complaining when Reiner takes his hands, his eyes twinkling, and leads him back into the building, slipping through quiet corridors still with the rhythm of midmorning lectures. His heart flutters. He'll draw the line at fucking on the front steps, but surely there's a custodial closet or an unused classroom or some kind of sexy abandoned office in the basement. That would be so hot: locking themselves in a cupboard to get it on like horny high schoolers, except with more finesse. He is less thrilled a moment later when Reiner gives him a smirk and leads him around the corner to the TA office. 

"Are you serious?" Bertholdt exclaims. Reiner wiggles his eyebrows and drags Bertholdt through the door, snatching him up around the waist as they stumble under the fluorescent lighting. Bertholdt clutches him, his heart jumping, and he glances around the small office. The cubicles are empty, thank God, but the teaching assistants' desk are littered tasks in progress— papers to grade and books to read. Someone could come in at any moment. 

"What's wrong?" Reiner asks, firm hands grasping Bertholdt's waist. Very firm hands. Very nice hands that he would like in his pants, if only—

"This is even worse," Bertholdt hisses. "We _work _here."

"You thought of it first," Reiner says. He reaches up and slides Bertholdt's backpack off his shoulders to let it drop on the floor, before he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the remains of Bertholdt's erotica. By now, absolutely decimated, what with the rain and the stroking and the intense tongue battle. He waves it coyly in Bertholdt's face (lets it flop, is more like it). 

"I didn't mean it," Bertholdt protests. "I didn't mean that we should actually do _that!"_

He lets himself be guided by Reiner's persuasive hands on his waist around the corner of a cubicle to Bertholdt's own desk, just out of sight of the office door. Reiner tosses the erotica pages aside and shuffles backwards until he hits the edge of Bertholdt's desk. He bumps a book out of the way with his butt. 

"What are you saying?" he breathes. "Are you saying you don't want to suck me off in our office?"

Bertholdt holds his breath. "Yes. I mean, no, I'm not saying—"

"Everyone's in class," Reiner says. He slides his arms up Bertholdt's chest and around his neck. "No one will bother us."

"Okay, but, like, if we caught—"

"I think we could bribe them to let us go." Reiner tugs at the collar of Bertholdt's shirt and nearly pops a button open. "This is the natural conclusion to your porn, so if any of them have any sense, they'll know not to come looking for us here."

"Assuming any of them have sense," Bertholdt mutters. 

Reiner laughs. His smile sends a jolt through Bertholdt's heart, and Bertholdt grins, like fuck YES, of course he wants to bang Reiner on his desk, why would he concede to literally anything else!? Who cares if someone walks in?! Nothing could be weirder than what's already happened today!!

He bends forward and kisses Reiner's, his heart fluttering at the feel of Reiner's smile beneath his lips. He presses kiss across his face, up his jawline and back, until their lips meet again, Reiner's hands clutching at his shoulders, tugging on his shirt. This time, their kiss is slower, steadier. Their lips move together. Reiner pulls him closer, hanging around Bertholdt's neck as he leans back, perched on the edge of Bertholdt's desk. Bertholdt pushes against him, his hands trailing down Reiner's body. He finds a place at Reiner's hips, where they just feel right. Bertholdt leans in further, his lips moving down Reiner's neck, and he catches sight of a book sitting on the corner of his desk. He frowns.

"Hold on," he mutters, untangling one hand. 

Reiner leans into him, knees pressing on Bertholdt's hips. "What?" 

"I need to move this." He paws at the book. "It's not really the energy I want in this room right now."

Reiner reaches past him and picks up Bertholdt's copy of _Middlesex_. "We're probably not related." 

"Oh my god," Bertholdt huffs. He snatches the book. "You can't say stuff like that while we're making out."

Why?" Reiner purrs. He crosses his hands behind Bertholdt's neck, leaning forward. "What are you afraid of?"

Bertholdt chucks the book over his shoulder. "Causing genetic mutations in my family tree because I slept with my sibling." 

"Luckily for you, my asshole is infertile."

"_Reiner."_

"But you're the fanfiction writer, Bear," Reiner says. He raises one eyebrow. "Do you write Mpreg?" 

"Stop it," Bertholdt exclaims. "Stop that right now."

"I'm just saying!"

"You're _teasing _me!"

"I am," Reiner coos, barely able to contain a laugh. He grabs Bertholdt's face and squeezes his cheeks, their noses brushing together. "And you're falling for it, you big baby."

"I'm gonna—"

Reiner kisses him to shut him up. Hm, clever trick. It's full and hard, his arms clutching Bertholdt's shoulders as he pushes their bodies together, slipping back on Bertholdt's desk. Bertholdt trembles under his touch. He's warm, and he's only getting warmer as their rain-soaked shirts dry, as the friction between them increases. Bertholdt leans in, pushing between Reiner's legs until he hits the desk, their groins brushing together through their jeans. Reiner makes a sound, his fingernails clenching on Bertholdt. A moment later, he breaks the kiss, but he doesn't pull away. He hovers on Bertholdt's lip, one hand slipping up to trail along his jaw, and he murmurs.

"You're shaking, Bear," he whispers. "I think you're a little too concerned about the _Middlesex _hypothetical."

"I'm not shaking," Bertholdt scoffs. Reiner runs a hand down his jaw, his neck, over his collarbone to pluck open the top button on his shirt. Bertholdt shivers. "I'm just..."

"You're desperate," Reiner breathes. He pushes forward against Bertholdt, sliding off the edge of the desk. He holds his lips just out of reach as he grins. "How much do you want me right now?" 

"Oh my god," Bertholdt murmurs. He's sweating. How sexy. "Just— hng, just, _yes." _

Reiner grins. "Then let me indulge you." 

He whirls them around before Bertholdt can protest. In an instant, Reiner's hands are on his waist, pushing him back against the table, and just as Bertholdt catches his breath, Reiner is on his knees. His hands slide down to rest on Bertholdt's thighs. Bertholdt swears under his breath— Reiner is undoing his zipper, and he thinks he could come just from the anticipation alone. He grips the edge of the desk. He can feel Reiner's breath from where he sits between Bertholdt's legs, hands gently prying open the zipper flap on his jeans. He gasps. 

"Wait," he exclaims. He forward and reaches into his back pocket. "We have to use a condom."

Reiner drops his hands. "Bear, are you serious?" 

"It's not safe without it." 

"Do you have any incurable diseases?"

"It's not safe," Bertholdt insists, whipping out his wallet. He produces a crushed condom from the side pocket and peers at it. "You know it's not safe—"

Reiner reaches up and snatches it from him. "This is why we've never been friends with benefits. I knew you would be like this, no matter what kind of porn you write."

"I— it's not porn!"

He tugs Bertholdt's waistband down, exposing his patterned briefs. "You're so— aw, candy canes! How festive."

Bertholdt blushes. "Shut up."

Reiner rubs a thumb over Bertholdt through his briefs, and Bertholdt bites his lip, unprepared for the sudden contact. Oh _fuck_, his hands are warm. "I don't know if I can adequately suck dick with these Christmas decorations in my face. Not to mention the delicious taste of latex."

"Reiner, if you really don't want to—"

He tears into the condom, giggling as he glances up at Bertholdt. "I'm just being a bitch. You're really cute when you get worked up over nothing, Bear." 

"Oh my god, _please_."

"Okay, okay," Reiner says with a laugh. He digs his hand into Bertholdt's jeans and rolls down his briefs, finally exposing his cock to the air. Bertholdt can barely hold back a gasp as Reiner's fingers tingle the inside of his thighs. He barely holds it back at all, actually, and he clasps a hand over his mouth to silence the moan coming from his throat. It doesn't work.

"Out of curiosity," Reiner says as he rolls the condom on, "when was the last time you had sex? Must've been a while."

"Shut up," Bertholdt breathes. He pushes a hand back through his hair. He's sweating so much. He hates himself. "It's just, I've been thinking about this—"

"I know you have, but if you're going to cum in six seconds, I'm not even putting this thing in my mouth."

"I'm fine," Bertholdt exclaims. He takes a deep breath. "I'm fine."

"Sure?" Reiner asks. He leans forward, one hand settling its grasp around the base of Bertholdt's cock. The touch of his fingers alone is, frankly, astounding, and Bertholdt can feel his warm breath as he glances up, licking his lips. 

"Yeah," Bertholdt says. Heat flushes through him. "It's just— it's _you_, you know—"

"That's so cute," Reiner coos, and then he goes down on him. 

Reiner is unbelievably cute as his lips touch Bertholdt's cock. His hair is a little mussed from their frantic and messy make-out in the hallway earlier. He's still pink, flushed with warmth and blood, his lips rosy and wet. He looks impossibly small beneath Bertholdt's legs, knelt there on the floor with his fingers stroking Bertholdt's balls. Reiner fits perfectly in between his knees. He looks like he belongs there, shoulders brushing Bertholdt's thighs, his hand tightening on Bertholdt's cock as he leans in to swallow him. He starts with a kiss, pressing his lips lightly against Bertholdt's head. He places another, and he moves down with his tongue, licking the underside of Bertholdt's cock, leaving little kisses as he goes. He elicits a moan from Bertholdt, who does a very bad job indeed at keeping quiet, and he smiles. Bertholdt can feel when he laughs, a hum echoing up from his throat. It vibrates against his skin, and he shivers. Reiner rubs a thumb on the sensitive skin above his balls, and when he goes down on Bertholdt again, he picks up his pace. 

Bertholdt clasps a hand over his mouth as Reiner takes him into his mouth. He's boiling with touch and anticipation, beads of sweat forming at his hairline. He's barely able to keep a coherent thought as Reiner swallows his head, leaving him wet and shaking, sending tremors through his veins. He's shaken, obviously, and totally horny, totally about to blow the world's biggest load, but most of all, he's enraptured at the idea, the visual, the reality that Reiner has his lips around Bertholdt's cock and he's giving it to him _good_, like, fuck yeah, this is real, they're actually fucking doing this, and he's kind of exploding with feelings, as well as, like, literally exploding. 

He moans into his hand when Reiner swallows his cock further, taking him nearly all the way. His mouth is indescribably warm, and Bertholdt can feel himself teetering over the edge, drops of pre-cum slipping out of him. Reiner pulls off with a _pop _and licks his head, kneading the pre-cum through the condom. He grins. 

"You're close," he murmurs. His voice echoes through Bertholdt.

Bertholdt grips the edge of the desk. "Uh-huh."

"I wish you would let me take the condom off so you could cum on my face."

"Oh my god," Bertholdt exclaims. His cock throbs, hot blood pulsing through his body. Reiner glances up at him, puckering his lips around Bertholdt's head. His eyes twinkle, and Bertholdt _swears _he smirks, before he drops his gaze again and takes Bertholdt fully. His head bobs up and down as he caresses the base of Bertholdt's cock, working him towards the edge that he must know is close. Bertholdt bites his lip, his breaths coming quick as Reiner sucks him off. Just a few more seconds and—

Reiner pulls back with alarmingly good timing. He wraps a firm hand around Bertholdt's base, his lips slick with saliva and pre-cum, and when he gives Bertholdt one last jerk of his wrist, Bertholdt throws a hand over his mouth and moans as he comes. Heat melts through his body, flooding into his stomach. He squeezes his eyes shut, shoulders heaving; and a moment later, he cracks them open to glance at Reiner, still perched on the floor between his legs, kneading the warm pool of cum gathered in the tip of the condom. He makes eye contact with Bertholdt as he leans forward and gives the latex an experimental lick.

"That's disgusting," Bertholdt mutters from behind his hand. 

"I bet you taste good," Reiner says. He lifts himself from the floor with his hands on Bertholdt's knees and wipes his lips as Bertholdt fumbles with the condom and tosses it into the trash can beneath his desk. He dumps a few loose papers in on top of it.

Bertholdt lets out a breath, suddenly so much more loose. Reiner leans into him, hands on Bertholdt's shoulders, and Bertholdt kisses him again, groaning at the heat of their lips together, at the bulge that Reiner presses against his thigh. He shivers, just thinking about the idea of touching Reiner. Getting to lay his hands on those thick thighs, getting to bury his face between them and go all the way together. Reiner slides one arm around his shoulders, and Bertholdt reaches down, eyes fluttering shut as they kiss, to grope him through his jeans. He earns a hum against his lips, and that sends a quiver through him. He bets Reiner is loud. 

"What do you want?" Bertholdt asks against his lips. Reiner is still kissing him, and they're both sweating, and it's probably rather unsightly, but he has never wanted to get someone off more. He wants to get Reiner off everyday for the rest of his life, and he's determined to start today. 

"I want you to end me," Reiner breathes.

He pulls back a bit and sets his hands on Bertholdt's shoulders. "But I doubt that's a viable option right now, unless you have an enema in your wallet."

"I don't even have another condom."

"Oh, well," Reiner sighs, leaning in to kiss him again. He presses a hand to Bertholdt's cheek. "You can make it up to me later."

"When you say later," Bertholdt starts, palming Reiner through his jeans, "do you mean...?" 

"Yes, I mean tonight. I want you to come over and fuck me so hard, I forgot about the end of the semester."

Bertholdt hums when Reiner pushes forward, bringing their bodies closer together. He loves the weight of Reiner's cock pressed into his thigh, even through his jeans. He's so warm, especially as he falls into Bertholdt, biting back a moan as he works himself against Bertholdt's thigh. Bertholdt kisses the corner of his mouth, then his jawline, then down his neck as he holds Reiner close, hands sliding up his body, along his damp shirt and over his chest, fingers brushing across one of his nipples. He feels Reiner shudder beneath him, arm clenched tightly around his shoulders. Bertholdt holds him tighter, revels in the heat as Reiner grinds against his thigh. 

Reiner mutters in his ear. "I'm about to cum."

"It's been twelve seconds," Bertholdt exclaims, lips against his cheek. "And you made fun of me—"

"I know," Reiner huffs. He pulls back, eyes squeezed shut, and drops his forehead against Bertholdt's, groaning. "Reading your erotica got me all hot and bothered."

"Don't bring that up."

"You wrote me like such a pliant dumbass."

"Whoa, word choice. Are you—"

Reiner gasps and jerks against Bertholdt's leg. He collapses a moment later, drooping onto Bertholdt's shoulder and letting out a long moan, his hands dropping to cling to the desk for support. Bertholdt presses a kiss just behind his ear, his hairline wet with rain and sweat, and he lets himself drop against Reiner and hold him. Reiner, who has always been there, who is there now. Reiner, who he has really just banged in the TA office, and who he hopes to bang in many more places that he's fantasized about, beginning with his apartment tonight. Just thinking about it sends chills down his spine. He doesn't know if he can get through the rest of his day now, knowing that Reiner will be waiting for him after class, to hold, to kiss, to make love to all night. He says as much when they're cleaning up, fixing their hair and smoothing out their shirts. 

"If it helps," Reiner says, grinning at Bertholdt, almost giddy, "I'll be thinking about you all day, too."

"That doesn't help at all," Bertholdt says. He feels himself blush as he reaches for Reiner's hand. His fingers are warm and soft, despite their callouses, and Bertholdt brings them tenderly to his lips for a kiss. "That makes me want you even more. How am I supposed to focus on anything else now that I have you?"

"Ah," Reiner says softly. His grin softens, his eyes sparkling. "Now I know why you don't read romance novels. Bear."

Bertholdt blinks at him. "Huh?"

Reiner leans in for a kiss. "Because you're living in one." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for indulging with me


End file.
